Jaxom didn’t like the trend of the conversation now. After all, Ruatha Hold was weyrbound to Fort Weyr and while he didn’t much like Mardra, he ought not listen to such talk.
“Well, this one’s not so big. Looks like a wherry egg. It’s half the size of even the smallest one of the others,” and he touched the smooth shell of an egg that lay almost against the rock wall, apart from the others
“Hey, don’t touch it!” Felessan protested, visibly startled.
“Why not? Can’t hurt it, can I? Hard as leather,” and Jaxom rapped it gently with his knuckles and then spread his hand flat on the curve. “It’s warm.”
Felessan pulled him away from the egg.
“You don’t touch eggs. Not ever. Not until it’s your turn. And you’re not weyrbred.”
Jaxom looked disdainfully at him. “You’re scared to.” And he caressed the egg again to prove that he was not.
“I am not scared. But you don’t touch eggs,” and Felessan slapped at Jaxom’s impious hand. “Not unless you’re a candidate. And you’re not. And neither am I, yet.”
“No, I’m a Lord Holder,” and Jaxom drew himself up proudly. He couldn’t resist the urge to pat the small egg once more because, while it was all right to be a Lord Holder, he was more than a little jealous of Felessan, and fleetingly wished that he, too, could look forward to being a dragonrider one day. And that egg looked lonely, small and unwanted, so far from the others.
“Your being a Lord Holder wouldn’t matter a grain of sand in Igen if Ramoth came back and caught us here,” Felessan reminded him and jerked Jaxom firmly toward the slit
A sudden rumble at the far end of the Hatching Ground startled them. One look at the shadow on the sand by the great entrance was enough. Felessan, being more agile and faster, got to the exit first and squeezed through. This time Jaxom did not object at all as Felessan frantically yanked him past the rock. They didn’t even stop to see if it really was Ramoth, returning. They grabbed the glow baskets and ran.
When the light from the slit was lost in the curve of the corridor, Jaxom stopped running. His chest hurt from his exertions as well as from his rough passage through the fissure.
“C’mon,” Felessan urged him, halting several paces further.
“I can’t. My chest . . .”
“Is it bad?” Felessan held his glow up; blood traced smeared patterns on Jaxom’s pale skin. “That looks bad. We’d better get you to Manora quick.”
“I . . . got . . . to . . . catch . . . my . . . breath.”
In rhythm with his labored exhalations, his glow sputtered and darkened completely.
“We’ll have to walk slow then,” Felessan said, his voice now shakier with anxiety than from running.
Jaxom got to his feet, determined not to show the panic he was beginning to feel; a cold pressure gripped his belly, his chest was hot and painful, while sweat was starting to creep down his forehead. The salty drops fell on his chest and he swore one of the wardguard’s favorites.
“Let’s walk fast,” he said and, holding onto the now useless glow basket, suited action to words.
By common consent they kept to the outer edge of the corridor, where the now dimly seen footsteps gave them courage.
“It’s not much further, is it?” Jaxom asked as the second glow flickered ominously.
“Ah—no. It better not be.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Ah—we’ve just run out of footprints.”
They hadn’t retraced their steps very far before they ran out of glow, too.
“Now what do we do, Jaxom?”
“Well, in Ruatha,” Jaxom said, taking a deep breath, a precaution against his voice breaking on him, “when they miss me, they send out search parties.”
“In that case, you’ll be missed as soon as Lytol wants to go home, won’t you? He never stays here long.”
“Not if Lytol gets asked to dinner and he will, if dinner is as close as you said it was.” Jaxom couldn’t suppress his bitterness at this whole ill-advised exploration. “Haven’t you any idea where we are?”
“No,” Felessan had to admit, sounding suddenly out of his depth. “I always followed the footprints, just like I did now. There were footprints. You saw them.”
Jaxom didn’t care to agree for that would mean he was in part to blame for their predicament.
“Those other corridors we passed on the way to the hole, where do they go?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know. There’s an awful lot of the Weyr that’s empty. I’ve—I’ve never gone any farther than the slit.”
“What about the others? How far in have they gone?”
“Gandidan’s always talking about how far he’s gone but—but—I don’t remember what he said.”
“For the Egg’s sake, don’t blubber.”
“I’m not blubbering. I’m just hungry!”
“Hungry? That’s it. Can you smell dinner? Seemed to me we could smell it an awful long ways down the corridor.”
They sniffed at the air in all directions. It was musty but not with stew. Sometimes, Jaxom remembered, you could smell fresher air and find your own way back. He put out a hand to touch the wall; the smooth, cold stone was somehow comforting. In between, you couldn’t feel anything, though this corridor was just as dark. His chest hurt and throbbed, in a steady accompaniment to his blood.
With a sigh, he backed up against the smooth wall and, sliding down it, settled to the ground with a bump.
“Jaxom?”
“I’m all right. I’m just tired.”
“Me, too,” and with a sigh of relief, Felessan sat down, his shoulder touching Jaxom’s. The contact reassured them both.
“I wonder what it was like,” Jaxom mused at length.
“Wonder what what was like?” asked Felessan in some surprise.
“When the Weyrs and the Holds were full. When these corridors were lighted and used.”
“They’ve never been used.”
“Nonsense. No one wastes time carving out corridors that’ll lead nowhere. And Lytol said there are over five hundred weyrs in Benden and only half-used . . .”
“We have four hundred and twelve fighting dragons at Benden now.”
“Sure, but ten Turns ago there weren’t two hundred, so why so many weyrs if they weren’t all used once? And why are there miles and miles of halls and unused rooms in Ruatha Hold if they weren’t used once . . .”
“So?”
“I mean, where did all the people go? And how did they carve out whole mountains in the first place?”
Clearly the matter had never troubled Felessan.
“And did you ever notice? Some of the walls are smooth as . . .”
Jaxom stopped, stunned by a dawning realization. Almost fearfully he turned and ran his hand down the wall behind him. It was smooth. He gulped and his chest hurt more than the throb of the scratches. “Felessan . . .?”
“What—what’s the matter?”
“This wall is smooth.”
“So what?”
“But it’s smooth. It’s not rough!”
“Say what you mean.” Felessan sounded almost angry.
“It’s smooth. It’s an old wall.”
“So?”
“We’re in the old part of Benden.” Jaxom got to his feet, running a hand over the wall, walking a few paces.
“Hey!” Jaxom could hear Felessan scrambling to his feet “Don’t leave me. Jaxom! I can’t see you.”
Jaxom stretched his hand back, touched fabric, and jerked Felessan to his side.
“Now hang on. If this is an old corridor, sooner or later it’ll run out. Into a dead end, or into the main section. It’s got to.”
“But how do you know you’re going in the right direction?”
“I don’t, but it’s better than sitting on my rump getting hungrier.” With one hand on the wall, the other clinging to Felessan’s belt, Jaxom moved on.
They couldn’t have walked more than twe
nty paces before Jaxom’s fingers stumbled over the crack. An even crack, running perpendicular to the floor.
“Hey, warn a guy!” cried Felessan, who had bumped into him.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A crack up and down, evenly.” Excitedly Jaxom stretched both arms out, trying to find the other side of what might even be a doorway.
At shoulder height, just beyond the second cut, he found a square plate and, in examining it, pressed. With a rumbling groan, the wall under his other hand began to slide back and light came up on the other side.
The boys had only a few seconds to stare at the brightly lit wonders on the other side of the threshold before the inert gas with which the room had been flooded rushed out to overcome them. But the light remained a beacon to guide the searchers.
“I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the bowels of the Hold itself where a rockfall had barred his way,” Lytol said to Lessa as he watched the boys running toward the Lower Cavern.
“You’ve forgotten your own boyhood then,” F’lar laughed, gesturing courteously for Lytol to proceed him to the weyr. “Or didn’t you explore the back corridors as a weyrling?”
Lytol scowled and then gave a snort, but he didn’t smile. “It was one thing for me. I wasn’t heir to the Hold.”
“But, Lytol, heir to the Hold or not,” Lessa said, taking the man’s arm, “Jaxom’s a boy, like any other. No, now please, I am not criticizing. He’s a fine lad, well grown. You may be proud of him.”
“Carries himself like a Lord, too,” F’lar ventured to say.
“I do my best”
“And your best is very well indeed,” Lessa said enthusiastically. “Why, he’s grown so since the last time I saw him!”
But the tic started in Lytol’s cheek and Lessa fumed, wondering what Mardra had been complaining about in the boy lately. That woman had better stop interfering . . . Lessa caught herself, grimly reminded that she could be accused of interfering right now, having invited Jaxom here on a visit. When Mardra heard that Lytol had been to Benden Weyr . . .
“I’m glad you think so,” Lytol replied, confirming Lessa’s suspicions.
Harper Robinton rose to greet Lytol, and the Mastersmith Fandarel’s face broke into the almost feral expression that passed as his smile. While F’lar seated them, Lessa poured wine.
“The new train is in, Robinton, but not settled enough to serve,” she said, grinning down at him. It was a private joke that Robinton visited Benden more for the wine than for companionship or business. “You’ll have to make do with last year’s tithe.”
“Benden wine is always acceptable to me,” Robinton replied suavely, using the compliment as an excuse to take a sip.
“I appreciate your coming, gentlemen,” F’lar began, taking charge of the meeting. “And I apologize for taking you from your business at such short notice, but I . . .”
“Always glad to come to Benden,” Robinton murmured, his eyes twinkling as he tipped his cup again.
“I have news for you so I was glad of this opportunity,” Fandarel rumbled.
“And I,” Lytol said in a dark voice, the tic moving agitatedly.
“My news is very serious and I need to know your reactions. There has been premature Threadfall . . .” F’lar began.
“Threadfalls,” Robinton corrected him with no vestige of his previous levity. “The drumroll brought me the news from Tillek and Crom Holds.”
“I wish I’d as reliable messengers,” F’lar said bitterly, gritting his teeth. “Didn’t you question the Weyrs’ silence, Robinton?” He had counted the Harper his friend.
“My Craft is weyrbound to Fort, my dear F’lar,” the Craftmaster replied, an odd smile on his lips, “although Weyrleader T’ron does not appear to follow custom in keeping the Master Harper advised of auspicious events. I had no immediate, or privy way to bespeak Benden Weyr.”
F’lar took a deep breath; Robinton confirmed the fact that T’ron had not known. “T’kul saw fit not to inform the other Weyrleaders of the unscheduled Fall in Tillek Hold.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” the Harper murmured cynically.
“We learned only today that R’mart was so badly injured in the Fall at Crom Hold that he couldn’t dispatch any messengers.”
“You mean, that numbwitted Weyrwoman Bedella forgot to,” Lessa interjected.
F’lar nodded and went on. “The first Benden knew of this was when Thread fell in Lemos northeast, midmorning, when the table indicated southwest and evening. Because I always send a rider on ahead to act as messenger for any last moment problems, we were able to reach Lemos before the leading Edge.”
Robinton whistled with appreciation.
“You mean, the timetables are wrong?” Lytol exclaimed. All the color had drained from his swarthy face at the news. “I thought that rumor had to be false.”
F’lar shook his head grimly; he’d been watching for Lytol’s reaction to this news.
“They’re not accurate any more; they don’t apply to this shift,” he said. “Lessa reminded me, as I do you, that there have been deviations in the Red Star’s passage that cause long intervals. We must assume that something can cause a change in the rhythm of the Fall as well. As soon as we can gauge a pattern again, we’ll correct the tables or make new ones.”
Lytol stared at him uncomprehendingly. “But how long will it take you? With three Falls, you ought to have some idea now. I’ve acres of new plantings, forests. How can I protect them when I can’t be sure where Thread will fall?” He controlled himself with an effort. “I apologize but this is—this is terrible news. I don’t know how the other Lord Holders will receive it on top of everything else.” He took a quick drink of wine.
“What do you mean, on top of everything else?” F’lar asked, startled.
“Why, the way the Weyrs are behaving. That disaster in Esvay valley in Nabol, those plantations of Lord Sangel’s.”
“Tell me about the Esvay Valley and Lord Sangel.”
“You hadn’t heard that either?” Robinton asked in real surprise. “Don’t the Weyrs talk to one another?” And he glanced from F’lar to Lessa.
“The Weyrs are autonomous,” F’lar replied. “We don’t interfere . . .”
“You mean, the Oldtimers keep exchanges with us contemporary radicals to a bare minimum,” Lessa finished, her eyes flashing indignantly. “Don’t scowl at me, F’lar. You know it’s true. Though I’m sure D’ram and T’ron were as shocked as we were that T’kul would keep premature Threadfall a secret. Now, what happened at Esvay Vale and in Lord Sangel’s Southern Boll?”
It was Robinton who answered her in an expressionless voice. “Several weeks back, T’kul refused to help Meron of Nabol clear some furrows from wooded slopes above the Esvay valley. Said it was the job of the ground crews and Meron’s men were lazy and inefficient. The whole valley had to be fired in order to stop the burrows’ spreading. Lytol sent help; he knows. I went to see some of the families. They’re holdless now and very bitter about dragonmen.
“A few weeks later, Weyrleader T’ron left Southern Boll Hold without clearing with Lord Sangel’s groundchief. They had to burn down three adult plantations. When Lord Sangel protested to T’ron, he was told that the wings had reported the Fall under control.
“On another level but disturbing in the over-all picture, I’ve heard of any number of girls, snatched on the pretext of Search . . .”
“Girls beg to come to the Weyr,” Lessa put in tartly.
“To Benden Weyr, probably,” Robinton agreed. “But my harpers tell me of unwilling girls, forced from their babes and husbands, ending as drudges to Weyrladies. There is deep hatred building, Lady Lessa. There has always been resentment, envy, because weyrlife is different and the ease with which dragonriders can move across the continent while lesser folk struggle, the special privileges riders enjoy—” The Harper waved his hands. “The Oldtimers really believe in special
privilege, and that exacerbates the dangers inherent in such outdated attitudes. As for matters in the Crafthalls, the belt knife incident at Fandarel’s is a very minor item in the list of depredations. The crafts generously tithe of their products, but Weaver Zurg and Tanner Belesden are bitterly disillusioned now by the stiff rate of additional levies.”
“Is that why they were so cool to me when I asked for gown material?” Lessa asked. “But Zurg himself helped me choose.”
“I fancy that no one at Benden Weyr abuses privilege,” Robinton replied. “No one at Benden Weyr. After all,” and he grinned toothily, managing to resemble T’ron as he did so, “Benden is the backsliding Weyr which has forgotten true custom and usage, become lax in their dealings. Why, they permit Holds bound to Benden Weyr to retain dignity, possession and forest. They encourage the Crafts to proliferate, hatching bastard breeds of who-knows-what. But Benden Weyr,” and Robinton was himself again, and angry, “is respected throughout Pern.”
“As a dragonrider, I ought to take offense,” F’lar said, so disturbed by this indictment that he spoke lightly.
“As Benden’s Weyrleader, you ought to take charge,” Robinton retorted, his voice ringing. “When Benden stood alone, seven Turns ago, you said that the Lord Holders and Craftsmen were too parochial in their views to deal effectively with the real problem. They at least learned something from their mistakes. The Oldtimers are not only incurably parochial, but worse—adamantly inflexible. They will not, they cannot adapt to our Turn. Everything we accomplished in the four hundred Turns that separate our thinking is wrong and must be set aside, set back for their ways, their standards. Pern has grown—is growing and changing. They have not. And they are alienating the Lord Holders and Craftsmen so completely that I am sincerely concerned—no, I’m scared—about the reaction to this new crisis.”
“They’ll change their minds when Thread falls unexpectedly,” Lessa said.
“Who will change? The Weyrleaders? The Holders? Don’t count on it, Lady Lessa.”
“I have to agree with Robinton,” Lytol said in a tired voice. “There’s been precious little cooperation from the Weyrs. They’re overbearing, wrongheaded and demanding. I find that I, Lytol, ex-dragonrider, resent any more demands on me as Lytol, Lord Warder. And now it appears they are incapable even of doing their job. What, for instance, can be done right in the present crisis? Are they willing to do anything?”
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