“No, he’s been knifed between his top and bottom,” Lessa answered with a sour glance at her Weyrmate. “And it is with exceptional difficulty that I can keep him in a chair. He belongs in a bed.”
F’lar waved her recriminations aside good-humoredly.
“If you’re—” F’nor half-rose, his face concerned.
“If you’re—” mocked F’lar, his look indicating a growing irritation with his disability and their protectiveness.
F’nor laughed, reseating himself. “And Brekke said I was a cantankerous patient. Ha! How bad is it? I heard various tales about that duel, well embroidered already, but not that you’d been clipped. Must it always be belt knives—for our Blood? And the other man armed with a wherry-skewer?”
“And dressed in wherhide,” Lessa added.
“Look, F’lar, Brekke has pronounced me fit to fly between,” and F’nor flexed his arm, fully but carefully. “I can appreciate your wanting to keep quiet about your injury, so I’ll do all your popping about”
F’lar chuckled at his half-brother’s eagerness. “Back a-neck and ready to go, huh? Well, resume your responsibilities then, They’ve changed.”
“Noticeably, O exalted one.”
F’lar frowned at that and brushed his forelock back irritably.
“Not that much. Did you see T’kul when he arrived from High Reaches at Southern?”
“No, nor did I want to. I heard him.” F’nor’s right hand clenched. “The fighting wings had already gone to join you at Igen for the Threadfall. T’kul ordered everyone, including the wounded, out of Southern in an hour’s time. What they couldn’t pack and take, he confiscated. He made it clear that the southern continent was his to have and hold. That his sweepriders were challenging any dragon and would flame them down like Thread if they didn’t get the proper response. Some of those Oldtimer dragons are stupid enough to do it, too.” F’nor paused. “You know, I’ve been noticing lately . . .”
“Did the Fort Weyr people arrive?”
“Yes, and Brekke checked T’ron to be sure he’d survived the trip.” F’nor scowled.
“He’ll live?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Good. Now, I rather suspected that T’kul would react in that fashion. To be sure we’ve all of Igen, Ista and Southern Boll as breeding ground for fire lizards, but I want you to get Manora to rig you something for those other lizard eggs you found and bring them back here. We need every one we can find. Where’s your little queen? They go back to their first feeding place, you know . . .”
“Grall? She’s with Canth, of course. She heard Ramoth grumbling on the Hatching Ground.”
“Hmm, yes. Fortunately, those eggs’ll hatch soon.”
“Going to invite all Pern’s notables as you did before the Oldtimers got stuffy?”
“Yes,” F’lar replied so emphatically that F’nor pretended alarm. “That courtesy did more good than harm. It’ll be standard procedure at all the Weyrs now.”
“And you’ve talked the Leaders into assigning riders to Hold and Hall?” F’nor’s eyes gleamed when F’lar nodded.
“Can you slip through whatever patrol T’kul has mounted in Southern?” F’lar asked.
“No problem. There isn’t a bronze there that Canth can’t outfly. Which reminds me . . .”
“Good. I’ve two errands for you. Pick up those fire-lizard eggs and, do you remember the coordinates for the Threadfall in the western swamp?”
“Of course, but I wanted to ask you . . .”
“You saw the grub life in the soil there?”
“Yes . . .”
“Ask Manora for a tightly covered pot I want you to bring me back as many of those grubs as you can. Not a pleasant job, I know, but I can’t go myself and I don’t want this—ah—project discussed.”
“Grubs? A project?”
Mnementh bellowed a welcome.
“I’ll explain later,” F’lar said, gesturing toward the weyr entrance.
F’nor shrugged as he rose. “I’ll fly the hazard, O inscrutable one!” Then he laughed as F’lar glared at him in angry reproach. “Sorry. Like the rest of Pern—the north, that is—I trust you.” He gave them both a jaunty salute and left.
“The day F’nor doesn’t tease you I’ll start to worry,” Lessa said, encircling his neck with her arms. She laid her cheek against his for an instant. “It’s T’bor,” she added, moving away just as the new High Reaches Weyrleader strode in.
The man looked as if he hadn’t slept enough but he carried his shoulders back and his head high which made the Benden Weyrleader more aware of the worried and wary expression on his face.
“Kylara’s—” F’lar began, remembering that she and Meron had been gabbling together all the last night.
“Not Kylara. It’s that T’kul who thought himself such a great Weyrleader,” T’bor said with utter disgust. “As soon as we brought our people up from Southern, I had the wings do a sweep check, really more to familiarize themselves with the coordinates than anything else. By the first Egg, I don’t like seeing anyone run from dragonmen. Run. And hide!” T’bor sat down, automatically taking the cup of klah Lessa handed him. “There wasn’t a watch fire or a watchman. But plenty of burn sign. I don’t see how that much Thread could have got through. Not even if smokeless weyrlings were riding the sweep. So I dropped down to Tillek Hold and asked to see Lord Oterel.” T’bor gave a low whistle. “That was some greeting I got, I want to tell you. I nearly had an arrow through my belly before I convinced the guard captain that I wasn’t T’kul. That I was T’bor and there’d been a change of Leaders at the Weyr.”
T’bor took a deep breath. “It took time to calm Lord Holder Oterel down to the point where I could tell him what had happened. And it seemed to me,” and the Southerner looked nervously first at Lessa and then at F’lar, “that the only way to restore his confidence was to leave him a dragon. So—I left him a bronze and stationed two greens in those minor Holds along the Bay. I also left weyrlings at vantage heights along the Tillek Hold range. Then I asked Lord Oterel to accompany me to Lord Bargen’s Hold at High Reaches. I’d a good idea I might not get past his guard at all. Now, we’d six eggs left over from that clutch Toric of the Seahold unearthed and so—I gave two each to the Lords and two to the Master-fisherman. It seemed the only thing to do. They’d heard Lord Meron had one—at Nabol Hold.” T’bor straightened his shoulders as if to endure F’lar’s opprobrium.
“You did the right thing, T’bor,” F’lar told him heartily. “You did exactly the right thing. You couldn’t have done better!”
“To assign riders to a Hold and a Craft?”
“There’ll be riders in all Holds and Crafts before the morning’s over,” F’lar grinned at him.
“And D’ram and G’narish haven’t objected?” T’bor glanced at Lessa, incredulous.
“Well,” Lessa began, and was saved from answering by the arrival of the other Weyrleaders.
D’ram, G’narish and the Wing-second from Telgar Weyr entered first, with P’zar, the acting Weyrleader from Fort, very close behind them. The Telgar Weyr Wing-second introduced himself as M’rek, Zigeth’s rider. He was a lanky, mournful-looking man, with sandy hair, about F’lar’s age. As they settled themselves at the big table, F’lar tried to read D’ram’s mood. He was the crucial one still, the oldest of the remaining Oldtimers and, if he’d cooled down from the stimulus of yesterday’s tumultuous events and had changed his mind after sleeping, the proposal F’lar was about to suggest might die a-hatching. F’lar stretched his long legs under the table, trying to make himself comfortable.
“I asked you here early because we had little chance to talk last night, M’rek, how’s R’mart?”
“He rests easily at Telgar Hold, thanks to the riders from Ista and Igen.” M’rek nodded gravely to D’ram and G’narish.
“How many at Telgar Weyr wish to go south?”
“About ten, but they’re old riders. Do more harm than good, feeding nonsen
se to the weyrlings. Speaking of nonsense, Bedella came back from Telgar Hold with some mighty confusing stories. About us going to the Red Star and fire lizards and talking wires. I told her to keep quiet. Telgar Weyr’s in no shape to listen to that kind of rumor.”
D’ram snorted and F’lar looked at him quickly, but the Istan leader’s head was turned toward M’rek. F’lar caught Lessa’s eye and nodded imperceptibly.
“There was talk about an expedition to the Red Star,” F’lar replied in a casual tone. Apprehension made the Telgar Weyr man’s face more mournful than ever. “But there’re more immediate undertakings.” F’lar straightened cautiously. He couldn’t get comfortable. “And the Lord Holders and other craftsmen will be here soon to discuss them. D’ram, tell me frankly, do you object to placing riders in Holds and Crafthalls while we can’t pattern Thread—that is, until we can find another reliable form of quick communication?”
“No, F’lar, I’ve no objections,” the Istan Weyrleader replied, slowly, not looking at anyone. “After yesterday—” He stopped and, turning his head, looked at F’lar with troubled eyes. “Yesterday, I think I finally realized just how big Pern is and how narrow a man can get, worrying so much about what he ought to have, forgetting what he’s got. And what he’s got to do. Times have changed. I can’t say I like it. Pern had got so big—and we Oldtimers kept trying to make it small again because, I guess, we were a little scared at all that had happened. Remember it took us just four days to come forward four hundred Turns. That’s too much time—too much to sink into a man’s thinking.” D’ram was nodding his head in unconscious emphasis. “I think we’ve clung to the old ways because everything we saw, from those great, huge hour-long sweeps of forests to hundreds and hundreds of new Holds and Crafthalls was familiar and yet—so different. T’ron was a good man, F’lar. I don’t say I knew him well. None of us ever really got to know each other, you know, keeping to our Weyrs mostly and resting between Threadfalls. But all dragonmen are—are dragonmen. For a dragonman to go to kill another one—” D’ram shook his head slowly from side to side. “You could’ve killed him.” D’ram looked F’lar straight in the eye. “You didn’t. You fought Thread over Igen Hold. And don’t think I didn’t know T’ron’s knife got you.”
F’lar began to relax.
“Nearly made two of me, in fact.”
D’ram gave another one of his snorts but the slight smile on his face as he leaned back in his chair indicated his approval of F’lar.
Mnementh remarked to his rider that everyone was arriving at once. A bigger ledge was needed. F’lar swore softly to himself. He’d counted on more time. He couldn’t jeopardize the fragile new accord with D’ram by springing distasteful innovations on the man.
“I don’t believe the Weyrs can remain autonomous these days,” F’lar said, discarding all the ringing, smooth words he’d been rehearsing. “We nearly lost Pern seven Turns ago because dragonmen lost touch with the rest of the world; we’ve seen what happens when dragonman loses touch with dragonman. We need open mating flights, the exchange of bronzes and queens between Weyrs to strengthen Blood and improve the breed. We need to rotate the wings so riders get to know each other’s Weyrs and territories. A man grows stale, careless, riding over ground he knows too well. We need public Impressions . . .”
They could all hear the rumble of greetings and the scuffling of heavy boots in the corridor.
“Ista Weyr followed Benden Weyr yesterday,” D’ram interrupted him, his slow smile reaching his dark eyes. “But have a care which traditions you overset. Some cannot be discarded with impunity . . .”
They rose then as Lord Holders and Craftmasters strode into the weyr. Lord Asgenar, Mastersmith Fandarel and his wood Craftmaster, Bendarek, were first; Lord Oterel of Tillek Hold and Meron, Lord Holder of Nabol, his fire lizard squawking on his arm, arrived together, but Lord Oterel immediately sought Fandarel. A restless, eager atmosphere began to build, palpable with questions unanswered the previous evening. As soon as most were assembled, F’lar led the way into the Council Room. No sooner had the Weyrleaders ranged themselves behind him, facing the gathering of Lords and Craftsmen, than Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, rose.
“Weyrleader, have you established where the next Thread is likely to fall?”
“Where you’ve evidently placed it, Lord Larad, on the western plains of Telgar Hold and Ruatha Hold.” F’lar nodded toward Lord Warder Lytol of Ruatha. “Probably later today. It’s early hours now in that part of the country and we don’t intend to hold you here long . . .”
“And how long will we have riders assigned us?” asked Lord Corman of Keroon, staring pointedly at D’ram on F’lar’s left.
“Until every Hold and Craft has an efficient communications system.”
“I’ll need men,” Mastersmith Fandarel rumbled from his cramped position in the far corner. “Do you all really want those flame throwers you’ve been plaguing me for?”
“Not if the dragonmen come when we call.” It was Lord Sangel of Boll Hold who answered, his face grim, his voice bitter.
“Is Telgar Weyr prepared to ride today?” Lord Larad went on, still holding the floor.
M’rek, the Telgar Weyr Wing-second, rose, glanced hesitantly at F’lar, cleared his throat and then nodded.
“High Reaches Weyr will fly with Telgar riders!” T’bor said.
“And Ista!” D’ram added.
The unexpected unanimity sent a murmurous ripple through the meeting, as Lord Larad sat down.
“Will we have to burn the forests?” Lord Asgenar of Lemos rose to his feet. The quiet question was the plea of a proud man.
“Dragonriders burn Thread, not wood,” F’lar replied calmly but there was a ring in his voice. “There are enough dragonriders,” and he gestured to the Weyrleaders on either side of him, “to protect Pern’s forests . . .”
“That’s not what’s needed most, Benden, and you know it,” Lord Groghe of Fort shouted as he rose to his feet, his eyes bulging. “I say, go after Thread on the Red Star itself. Enough time’s been wasted. You keep saying your dragons’ll go anywhere, anywhen you tell ’em to.”
“A dragon’s got to know where he’s going first, man,” G’narish, the Igen Leader, protested, jumping up excitedly.
“Don’t put me off, young man! You can see the Red Star, plain as my fist,” and Lord Groghe thrust out his closed hand like a weapon, “in that distance-viewer! Go to the source. Go to the source!”
D’ram was on his feet beside G’narish now, adding his angry arguments to the confusion. A dragon roared so loudly that all were deafened for a moment.
“If that is the desire of the Lords and Craftsmen,” F’lar said, “then we shall mount an expedition to fly on the morrow.” He knew D’ram and G’narish had turned to stare at him, dumbfounded. He saw Lord Groghe bristle suspiciously, but he had the attention of the entire room. He spoke quickly, clearly. “You’ve seen the Red Star, Lord Groghe? Could you describe the land masses to me? Would you estimate that we had to clear as large an area as, say, the northern continent? D’ram, would you agree that it takes about thirty-six hours to fly straight across? More? Hmmm. Tip-to-tip sweeps would be most effective since we couldn’t count on ground-crew support. That would mean dragonweights of firestone. Masterminer, I’ll need to know exactly what supplies you have processed for use. Benden Weyr keeps about five dragon-weights on hand at all times, the other Weyrs about the same, so we’d probably need all you’ve got. And every flame thrower on the continent. Now, dragonmen, I admit we don’t know if we can traverse such a distance without harm to ourselves and the dragons. I assume that since Thread survives on this planet, we can exist on that one. However . . .”
“Enough!” Groghe Of Fort Hold bellowed, his face flushed, his eyes protruding from their sockets.
F’lar met Groghe’s eyes steadily so that the choleric Lord Holder would realize that he was not being mocked; that F’lar was in earnest.
“To be at all effective, Lor
d Groghe, such an undertaking would leave Pern totally unprotected. I could not in conscience order such an expedition now that I see how much is involved. I hope you will agree that it is far more important, at this time, to secure what we have.” Better to risk Groghe’s pride if necessary to defeat that premature ambition. He couldn’t afford to evade an issue that could become a convenient rallying cry for the disaffected. “I’d want to get a good look at the Red Star before I took such a leap, Lord Groghe. And the other Leaders would too. I can promise you that once we are able to distinguish some jumping coordinates acceptable to the dragons, we can send a volunteer group to explore. I’ve often wondered why no one has gone before now. Or, if they have, what happened.” He had dropped his voice on those last words and there wasn’t a sound in the Chamber for a long moment.
The fire lizard on Lord Meron’s arm squawked nervously, causing an instant, violent reaction from every man.
“Probably that Record deteriorated, too,” F’lar said, raising his voice to a level audible above the restless scraping and throat-clearing. “Lord Groghe, Fort is the oldest of the Holds. Is there a chance that your back corridors, too, hide treasures we can use?”
Groghe’s reply was a curt nod of his head. He seated himself abruptly, staring straight ahead. F’lar wondered if he had alienated the man beyond reconciliation.
“I don’t think I’d ever fully appreciated the enormity of such a venture,” Corman of Keroon Hold remarked in a thoughtful drawl.
“One jump ahead of us, again, Benden?” asked Larad of Telgar Hold with a rueful grin.
“I shouldn’t say that, Lord Larad,” F’lar replied. “The destruction of all Thread at its source has been a favorite preoccupation of dragonmen Turn after Turn. I know how much territory one Weyr can cover, for instance; how much firestone is used by a Weyr in a Fall’s span. Naturally we,” and he gestured to the other Leaders, “would have information unavailable to you just as you could tell us how many guests you can feed at a banquet” That elicited a chuckle from many.
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