“The undercurrent is something fierce,” the journeyman said, pretending to tune his instrument. “Everyone’s so determined to have a good time. Odd, too. It’s not what they say, but how they say it that tips you off.” The boy flushed as Robinton nodded approvingly. “For instance, they refer to ‘that Weyrleader’ meaning their own weyrbound leader. ‘The Weyrleader’ always means F’lar of Benden. ‘The Weyrleader’ had understood. ‘The Weyrleader’ had tried. ‘She’ means Lessa. ‘Her’ means their own Weyrwoman. Interesting?”
“Fascinating. What’s the feeling about Threadfall?”
Brudegan bent his head to the gitar, twanged strings discordantly. He drew his hand across all eight in a dissonant chord that ran a chill down the Masterharper’s spine. Then Brudegan turned away with a gay song.
Robinton wished that F’lar and Lessa would arrive. He did see D’ram of Ista Weyr talking earnestly to Igen’s Weyrleader, G’narish. He liked that pair best of the Oldtimers, G’narish being young enough to change and D’ram essentially too honest to deny a truth when his nose was in it. Trouble was, he kept his nose inside Ista Weyr too much.
Neither man looked at ease, as much because there was an island of empty space around them—an obvious ostracization with the Court so crowded—as anything else. They greeted Robinton with grave relief.
“Such a happy occasion,” he said and, when they reacted with surprise, he hurried on. “Have you heard from F’lar?”
“Should we? There’s been more Thread?” G’narish asked, alarmed.
“Not that I know of.”
“Have you seen T’ron or T’kul about? We just arrived.”
“No, in fact, none of the western people seem to be here except Lord Warder Lytol of Ruatha.”
D’ram clenched his teeth with an audible snap.
“R’mart of Telgar can’t come,” the Oldtimer said. “He took a bad scoring.”
“I’d heard it was wicked at Crom Hold,” Robinton murmured, sympathetically. “No way to predict it’d fall there at that time, either?”
“I see Lord Nessel of Crom and his Holders are here in strength, though,” D’ram said, his voice bitter.
“He could scarcely stay away without insulting Lord Larad. How bad were the Telgar Weyr’s casualties? And if R’mart’s out of action, who’s leading?”
D’ram gave the Harper the distinct feeling that he’d asked an impertinent question, but G’narish answered easily.
“The Wing-second, M’rek, took over but the Weyr is so badly understrength that D’ram and I talked it over and sent replacements. As it happens, we’ve enough weyrlings who’ve just started chewing stone so we’re wing-full.” G’narish glanced at the older dragonman as if he suddenly realized that he was discussing Weyr affairs with an outsider. He gave a shrug. “It makes more sense with Thread falling out of phase and the Crom Hold demoralized. We used to do it in the Oldtime when a Weyr was understrength. In fact, I flew with Benden one season as a weyrling.”
“I’m certain that Crom and Telgar Holds will appreciate your cooperation, Weyrleaders,” Robinton said. “Tell me, though, have you had any luck Impressing some fire lizards? Igen and Ista ought to be good hunting grounds.”
“Impressing? Fire lizards?” D’ram snorted with as much incredulity as Robinton had expressed earlier.
“That’d be a trick,” G’narish laughed. “Look, there’s Ramoth and Mnementh now.”
There was no mistaking the two beasts who were gliding to the fire heights. It was also unmistakable that the dragons already perched on the pinnacle moved aside to make room for them.
“Now, that’s the first time—” G’narish muttered under his breath and stopped, because a sudden lull in the conversation had swept through the assembly, punctuated by audible hushings and scrapings as people turned to the Gate.
Robinton watched, with fond pride, as Lessa and F’lar mounted the steps to their hosts. They were both wearing the soft green of new leaves and the Harper wanted to applaud. However, he restrained himself and, signaling to the dragonmen, began to thread his way toward the new arrivals. Another dragon, closely followed by a bronze, swept in at dangerously low altitude. Gold wingtips showed above the outer wall of the Court and the wind from her backstrokes flung up dust, dirt and the skirts of the ladies nearest the Gate. There was a spate of screams and angry protests from those discommoded which settled into an ominous murmur.
Robinton, his height giving him an advantage, noticed Lord Larad hesitate in the act of bowing to Lessa. He saw Lord Asgenar and the ladies staring intently beyond. Irritated that he was missing something, Robinton pushed urgently on.
He broke through to the corner of the stairs, took the first four in two big strides and halted.
Resplendent in red, her golden hair unbound like a maiden’s, Kylara approached the Hall entrance, her smile composed of pure malice, not pleasure. Her right hand rested on the arm of Lord Meron of Nabol Hold, whose red tunic was slightly too orange in cast to blend with hers. Such details Robinton remembered at another time. Now all he saw were the two fire lizards, wings slightly extended for balance; a gold one on Kylara’s left arm, a bronze on Meron’s. “Regular miniature dragons,” beautiful, evoking a feeling of envy and desire in the Harper. He swallowed hastily, firmly suppressing such unbecoming emotions.
The murmur grew as more people became aware of the newest arrivals.
“By the First Shell, they’ve got fire lizards!” Lord Corman of Keroon Hold bellowed. He stepped out of the crowd into the aisle that had been opened to the Hall entrance, and stalked forward to have a good look.
The golden lizard screamed at his approach, and the little bronze hissed in warning. There was an irritatingly smug smirk on Meron’s face.
“Did you know Meron had one?” D’ram demanded in a harsh whisper at the Harper’s elbow.
Robinton raised a hand to still further questions.
“And here come Kylara of Southern and Lord Meron of Nabol Hold with living examples of this small token of our best wishes for the happy couple,” F’lar’s voice rang out.
Utter silence fell as he and Lessa presented felt-wrapped round bundles to Lord Asgenar and his bride, Lady Famira.
“They are just now hard,” F’lar said in a loud voice that carried over the murmurings, “and must be kept in heated sands to crack, of course. They come to you through the generosity of one Toric, a seaholder at Southern Weyr, from a clutch he discovered only hours ago. Weyrleader T’bor brought them to me.”
Robinton glanced back at Kylara. Her flushed face now matched Meron’s tunic while he looked ready to kill. Lessa, smiling graciously, turned to Kylara.
“F’lar told me he’d seen your little pet . . .”
“Pet nothing!” Kylara blazed with anger. “She ate Thread yesterday at High Reaches . . .”
What else she’d had to say was lost as her words, “ate Thread,” “ate Thread,” ricocheted back through the assembly. The raucous screams of the two lizards added cacophony and Kylara and Meron had all they could do to soothe their creatures. To Robinton it was plain that whatever effect Meron of Nabol had planned had been foiled. He was not the only Lord Holder to own “a regular miniature dragon.”
Two minor Holders, from Nerat to judge by their devices, bore down on D’ram and G’narish.
“As you love your dragons, pretend you knew about the lizards,” Robinton said in an urgent undertone to the two. D’ram started to protest but the anxious Holders closed in with a barrage of eager questions on how to acquire a fire lizard just like Meron’s.
Recovering first, G’narish answered with more poise than Robinton thought he’d have. Pressing against the stone wall, the Harper inched his way up the stairs, to push in around the women clustered about Lord Asgenar, his lady Famira and F’lar.
“LORD HOLDERS, OF MAJOR AND MINOR DEGREE, PRESENT YOURSELF FOR THE CONCLAVE,” boomed out the Telgar Hold guard captain. A brass chorus of dragons echoed from the heights, satisfactorily st
unning the guests into momentary silence.
The Captain repeated his summons and abjured the crowd to make room.
Lord Asgenar handed Famira his egg, murmuring something in her ear and pointing into the Hall. He stepped aside, gesturing for Lessa and Famira to pass inside. As well they did, for the Holders were now massing up the stairs. Robinton tried to signal F’lar but the dragonman was struggling toward Kylara, against the current. She was arguing heatedly with Meron who gave an angry shrug, left her and began shoving roughly into the Hall, past more polite Holders.
There was another exodus, Robinton noticed, of Craftmasters who congregated near the kitchen.
F’lar needs the Harper
Robinton glanced around him, wondering who had spoken, amazed that so soft a voice had reached him over the gabbling. He was alerted by a dissonant twang of strings and, turning his head unerringly toward the sound, spotted Brudegan up on the sentry walk with Chad, from the look of him. Had the resident Harper of Telgar Hold found a way to overhear the Conclave?
As Robinton changed his direction for the tower steps, a dragonrider confronted him.
“F’lar wants you, Masterharper.”
Robinton hesitated, looking back to the two harpers who were urgently signaling him to hurry.
Lessa listens.
“Did you speak?” Robinton demanded of the rider.
“Yes, sir. F’lar wants you to join him. It’s important.”
The Harper looked toward the dragons and Mnementh dipped his head up and down. Robinton shook his, trying to cope with another of this day’s astonishing shocks. A piercing whistle reached him from above.
He pursed his lips and gave the “go-ahead” sequence, adding in its different tempo the tune for “report later.”
Brudegan strummed an “understand” chord with which Chad apparently disagreed. Marks for the journeyman, Robinton thought, and whistled the strident trill for “comply.” He wished the harpers had as flexible a code as the one he’d developed for the Smith—and where was he?
That was one man easily spotted in a crowd but, as Robinton followed the dragonrider, he didn’t see a smithcrafter anywhere. Of course, the impact of the distance-writer would be anticlimactic to the introduction of the lizards. Robinton felt sorry for the Smith, quietly perfecting an ingenious means of communication only to have it overshadowed by Threadeating miniature dragons. Creatures who could be Impressed by non-weyrfolk. The average Pernese would be far more struck by a draconic substitute than by any mechanical miracle.
The dragonrider had led him to the watchtower to the right of the Gate. When Robinton looked back over his left shoulder, Brudegan and Chad were no longer visible on the sentry walk.
The lower floor of the tower was a single large room, the stone stairs which rose to the right side of the sentry walk were on the far wall. Sleeping furs were piled in one corner in readiness for such guests as might have to be lodged there that night. Two slit windows, facing each other on the long sides of the room, gave little light G’narish, the Igen Weyrleader, was unshielding the glow basket in the ceiling as the Harper entered. Kylara was standing right under it, glaring furiously at T’bor.
“Yes, I went to Nabol. My queen lizard was there. And well I did, for Prideth saw Thread sign across the High Reaches Range!” She had everyone’s attention now. Her eyes gleamed, her chin lifted and, Robinton noted, the shrewish rasp left her voice. Kylara was a fine-looking female, but there was a hard ruthlessness about her that repelled him.
“I flew instantly to T’kul.” Her face twisted with anger. “He’s no dragonman! He refused to believe me. Me! As if any Weyrwoman wouldn’t know the sign when she sees it I doubt he’s even bothered with sweepriders. He kept harping on the fact that Thread had fallen six days ago at Tillek Hold and couldn’t be falling this soon at High Reaches. So I told him about Falls in the western swamp and north Lemos Hold, and he still wouldn’t believe me.”
“Did the Weyr turn out in time?” F’lar interrupted her coldly.
“Of course,” and Kylara drew herself up, her posture tightening the dress against her full-bosomed body. “I had Prideth sound the alarm.” Her smile was malicious. “T’kul had to act. A queen can’t lie. And there isn’t a male dragon alive that will disobey one!”
F’lar inhaled sharply, gritting his teeth. T’kul of the High Reaches was a taciturn, cynical, tired man. However justified Kylara’s actions were, her methods lacked diplomacy. And she was contemporary weyrfolk. Oh, well, T’kul was a lost cause anyhow. F’lar glanced obliquely at D’ram and G’narish, to see what effect T’kul’s behavior had on them. Surely now . . . They looked strained.
“You’re a good Weyrwoman, Kylara, and you did well. Very well,” F’lar said with such conviction that she began to preen and her smile was a smirk of self-satisfaction. Then she stared at him.
“Well, what are you going to do about T’kul? We can’t permit him to endanger the world with that Oldtime attitude of his.”
F’lar waited, half-hoping that D’ram might speak up. If just one of the Oldtimers . . .
“It seems that the dragonriders had better call a conclave, too,” he said at length, aware of the tapping of Kylara’s foot and the eyes on him. “T’ron of Fort Weyr must hear of this. And perhaps we’d all better go on to Telgar Weyr for R’mart’s opinion.”
“Opinion?” demanded Kylara, infuriated by this apparent evasion. “You ought to ride out of here now, confront T’kul with flagrant negligence and . . .”
“And what, Kylara?” F’lar asked when she broke off.
“And—well—there must be something you can do!”
For a situation that had never before arisen? F’lar looked at D’ram and G’narish.
“You’ve got to do something,” she insisted, swinging toward the other men.
“The Weyrs are traditionally autonomous . . .”
“A fine excuse to hide behind, D’ram . . .”
“There can be no hiding now,” D’ram went on, his voice rough, his expression bleak. “Something will have to be done. By all of us. When T’ron comes.”
More temporizing? F’lar wondered. “Kylara,” he said aloud, “you mentioned your lizard eating Thread.” There was a lot more to be discussed in this matter than T’kul’s incredible behavior. “And may I inquire how you knew your lizard had returned to Nabol?”
“Prideth told me. She Hatched there so she returned to Nabol Hold when you frightened her at Southern.”
“You had her at High Reaches Weyr, though?”
“No. I told you. I saw Thread over the High Reaches Range and went to T’kul. First! Once I’d roused the Weyr, I realized that there might have been Thread over Nabol so I went to check.”
“And told Meron about the premature Threadfall?”
“Of course.”
“Then?”
“I took the lizard back with me. I didn’t want to lose her again.” When F’lar ignored that jibe, she went on. “I picked up a flame thrower, so naturally I flew with Merika’s wing. Scant thanks I got for my help from that Weyrwoman.”
She was telling the truth, F’lar realized, for her emotions were very much in evidence.
“When my lizard saw Thread falling, she seemed to go mad. I couldn’t control her. She flew right at a patch and—ate it”
“Did you give her firestone?” D’ram asked, his eyes keen with real interest
“I didn’t have any. Besides, I want her to mate,” and Kylara’s smile had a very odd twist to it as she stroked the lizard’s back. “She’ll burrow, too,” she added, extolling her creature’s abilities. “A ground crewman said he’d seen her enter one. Of course I didn’t know that until later.”
“Is the High Reaches Hold clear of Thread now?”
Kylara shrugged indifferently. “If they aren’t, you’ll hear.”
“How long did Threadfall continue after you saw it? Were you able to determine the leading Edge when you flew over to Nabol?”
“It
lasted about three hours. Under, I’d say. That is, from the time the wings finally got there.” She gave a condescending smile. “As to the leading Edge, I’d say it must have been high up in the Range,” and she dared them to dispute it, hurrying on when no one did. “It’d fall on bare rock and snow there. I did sweep the Nabol side but Prideth saw no sign.”
“You did extremely well, Kylara, and we are exceedingly grateful to you,” F’lar said, and the other Leaders endorsed his commendations so firmly that Kylara smiled expansively, turning from one man to another, her eyes glittering with self-appreciation.
“We’ve had five Falls now,” F’lar went on gravely, glancing at the other Leaders, trying to see how far he could continue in his move to consolidate himself as their spokesman. T’kul’s defection had shaken D’ram badly. What T’ron’s reaction would be, F’lar didn’t try to guess, but if the Fort Weyrleader found himself in a minority of one against the other four Leaders, would he decide to act against T’kul, even if it did mean siding with F’lar? “At Tillek Hold, eight days ago; Upper Crom Hold, five; high Lemos Hold north, three; Southern far west, two; and now High Reaches Hold. Undoubtedly Thread fell in the Western Sea but there is no question that Falls are more frequent and increasing in scope. No point on Pern is safe. No Weyr can afford to relax its vigil to a traditional six-day margin.” He smiled grimly. “Tradition!”
D’ram looked about to argue, but F’lar caught and held his eyes until the man slowly nodded.
“That’s easy to say, but what are you going to do about T’kul? Or T’ron?” Kylara had just realized no one was paying her any attention. “He’s just as bad. He refuses to admit times have changed. Even when Mardra deliberately . . .”
There was a brisk knock on the door but it swung open instantly, to admit the giant frame of Fandarel.
“I was told you were here, F’lar, and we are ready.”
F’lar scrubbed at his face, regretting the diversion.
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