“Not a bit, my dear Lessa, I assure you. However, it’s not as if Benden were inadequately represented,” and he executed a little bow which, if she shrugged it off, at least made her laugh. “In fact,” he went on, “I’m a trifle relieved that F’lar isn’t here, railing at anything that keeps him from blotting out any Thread he happens to see in that contraption.”
“True enough.” And Robinton caught the edge to her voice. “I’m not sure . . .”
She didn’t finish her sentence and turned so swiftly to mark the landing of another dragon that Robinton was certain she was at odds with F’lar’s wishing to push a move against the Red Star.
Suddenly she stiffened, drawing in her breath sharply.
“Meron! What does he think he’s doing here?”
“Easy, Lessa. I don’t like him around any better than you, but I’d rather keep him in sight, if you know what I mean.”
“But he’s got no influence on the other Lords . . .”
Robinton gave a harsh laugh. “My dear Weyrwoman, considering the influence he’s been exerting in other areas, he doesn’t need the Lords’ support.”
Robinton did wonder at the gall of the man, appearing in public anywhere a, scant six days after he’d been involved in the deaths of two queen dragons.
The Lord Holder of Nabol strode insolently to the focal point of the gathering, his bronze fire lizard perched on his forearm, its wings extended as it fought to maintain its balance. The little creature began to hiss as it became aware of the antagonism directed at Meron.
“And this—this innocuous tube is the incredible instrument that will show us the Red Star?” Meron of Nabol asked scathingly.
“Don’t touch it, I beg of you.” Wansor jumped forward, intercepting Nabol’s hand.
“What did you say?” The lizard’s hiss was no less sibilantly menacing than Meron’s tone. The Lord’s thin features, contorted with indignation, took on an added malevolence from the glow lights.
Fandarel stepped out of the darkness to his craftsman’s side. “The instrument is positioned for the viewing. To move it would destroy the careful work of some hours.”
“If it is positioned for viewing, then let us view!” Nabol said and, after staring belligerently around the circle, stepped past Wansor. “Well? What do you do with this thing?”
Wansor glanced questioningly at the big Smith, who made a slight movement of his head, excusing him. Wansor gratefully stepped back and let Fandarel preside. With two gnarled fingers the Smith delicately held the small round protuberance at the of the smaller cylinder.
“This is the eyepiece. Put your best seeing eye to it,” he told Meron.
The lack of any courteous title was not lost on the Nabolese Plainly he wanted to reprimand the Smith. Had Wansor spoken so, he would have hesitated a second, Robinton thought.
Meron’s lips slid into a sneer and, with a bit of a swagger he took the final step to the distance-viewer. Bending forward slightly, he laid his eye to the proper place. And jerked his body back hastily, his face wearing a fleeting expression of shock and terror, He laughed uneasily and than took a second, longer look. Far too long a look to Robinton’s mind.
“If there is any lack of definition in the image, Lord Meron—” Wansor began tentatively.
“Shut up!” Gesturing him away impatiently, Meron continued his deliberate monopoly of the instrument.
“That will be enough, Meron,” Groghe, Lord of Fort said as the others began to stir restlessly. “You’ve had more than your turn this round. Move away. Let others see.”
Meron stared insolently at Groghe for a moment and then looked back into the eyepiece.
“Very interesting. Very interesting.” he said, his tone oily with amusement.
That is quite enough, Meron,” Lessa said, striding to the instrument. The man could not be allowed any privilege.
He regarded her as he might a body insect, coldly and mockingly.
“Enough of what—Weyrwoman?” And his tone made the title a vulgar epithet. In fact, his pose exuded such a lewd familiarity that Robinton found he was clenching his fists. He had an insane desire to wipe that look from Meron’s face and change the arrangement of the features in the process.
The Mastersmith, however, reacted mere quickly. His two great hands secured Meron’s arms to his sides and, in a fluid movement, Fandarel picked the Nabolese Lord up, the man’s feet dangling a full dragonfoot above the rock, and carried him as far away from the Star Stones as the ledge permitted. Fandarel then set Meron down so hard that the man gave a startled exclamation of pain and staggered before he gained his balance. The little lizard screeched around his head
“My lady,” the Mastersmith inclined his upper body toward Lessa and gestured with great courtesy for her to take her place.
Lessa had to stand on tiptoe to reach the eyepiece, silently wishing someone had taken into account that not all the viewers this evening were tall. The instant the image of the Red Star reached her brain, such trivial annoyance evaporated. There was the Red Star, seemingly no farther away than her arm could reach. It swam, a many-hued globe, like a child’s miggsy, in a lush black background. Odd whitish-pink masses must be clouds. Startling to think that the Red Star could possess clouds—like Pern. Where the cover was pierced, she could see grayish masses, a lively gray with glints and sparkles. The ends of the slightly ovoid planet were completely white, but devoid of the cloud cover. Like the great icecaps of northern regions of Pern. Darker masses punctuated the grays. Land? Or seas?
Involuntarily Lessa moved her head, to glance up at the round mark of redness in the night sky that was this child’s toy through the magic of the distance-viewer. Then, before anyone might think she’d relinquished the instrument, she looked back through the eyepiece. Incredible. Unsettling. If the gray was land—how could they possibly rid it of Thread? If the darker masses were land . . .
Disturbed, and suddenly all too willing that someone else be exposed to their ancient enemy at such close range, she stepped back.
Lord Groghe stepped forward importantly. “Sangel, if you please?”
How like the Fort Lord, Lessa thought, to play host when P’zar who was, after all, acting Weyrleader at Fort Weyr, did not act quickly enough to exert his rights. Lessa wished fervently that F’lar had been able to attend this viewing. Well, perhaps P’zar was merely being diplomatic with the Fort Lord Holder. Still, Lord Groghe would need to be kept . . .
She retreated—and knew it for a retreat—to Robinton. The Harper’s presence was always reassuring. He was eager to have his turn but resigned to waiting. Groghe naturally would give the other Lord Holders precedence over a harper, even the Masterharper of Pern.
“I wish he’d go,” Lessa said, glancing sideways at Meron. The Nabolese had made no attempt to re-enter the group from which he had been so precipitously expelled. The offensive stubbornness of the man in remaining where he clearly was not welcome provided a counterirritant to worry and her renewed fear of the Red Star.
Why must it appear so—so innocent? Why did it have to have clouds? It ought to be different. How it ought to differ, Lessa couldn’t guess, but it ought to look—to look sinister. And it didn’t. That made it more fearful than ever.
“I don’t see anything,” Sangel of Boll was complaining.
“A moment, sir.” Wansor came forward and began adjusting a small knob. “Tell me when the view clarifies for you.”
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Sangel demanded irritably. “Nothing there but a bright—ah! Oh!” Sangel backed away from the eyepiece as if Thread had burned him. But he was again in position before Groghe could call another Lord to his place.
Lessa felt somewhat relieved, and a little smug, at Sangel’s reaction. If the fearless Lords also got a taste of honest dread, perhaps . . .
“Why does it glow? Where does it get light? It’s dark here,” the Lord Holder of Boll babbled.
“It is the light of the sun, my Lord,” Fandarel replie
d, his deep, matter-of-fact voice reducing that miracle to common knowledge.
“How can that be?” Sangel protested. “The sun’s on the other side of us now. Any child knows that.”
“Of course, but we are not obstructing the Star from that light. We are below it in the skies, if you will, so that the sun’s light reaches it directly.”
Sangel seemed likely to monopolize the viewer, too.
“That’s enough, Sangel,” Groghe said testily. “Let Oterel have a chance.”
“But I’ve barely looked, and there was trouble adjusting the mechanism,” Sangel complained. Between Oterel’s glare and Groghe trying to shoulder him out of the way, Sangel reluctantly stepped aside.
“Let me adjust the focus for you, Lord Oterel,” Wansor murmured politely.
“Yes, do. I’m not half blind like Sangel there,” the Lord of Tillek said.
“Now, see here, Oterel . . .”
“Fascinating, isn’t it, Lord Sangel?” said Lessa, wondering what reaction the man’s blathering had concealed.
He harumphed irritably, but his eyes were restless and he frowned.
“Wouldn’t call it fascinating, but then I had barely a moment’s look.”
“We’ve an entire night, Lord Sangel.”
The man shivered, pulling his cloak around him though the night air was not more than mildly cool for spring.
“It’s nothing more than a child’s miggsy,” exclaimed the Lord of Tillek. “Fuzzy. Or is it supposed to be?” He glanced away from the eyepiece at Lessa.
“No, my Lord,” Wansor said. “It should be bright and clear, so you can see cloud formations.”
“How would you know?” Sangel asked testily.
“Wansor set the instrument up for this evening’s viewing,” Fandarel pointed out.
“Clouds?” Tillek asked. “Yes, I see them. But what’s the land? The dark stuff or the gray?”
“We don’t know yet,” Fandarel told him.
“Land masses don’t look that way as high as dragons can fly a man,” said P’zar the Fort Weyrleader, speaking for the first time.
“And objects seen at a far greater distance change even more,” Wansor said in the dry tone of someone who does know what he’s talking about. “For example, the very mountains of Fort which surround us change drastically if seen from Ruatha Heights or the plains of Crom.”
“Then all that dark stuff is land?” Lord Oterel had difficulty not being impressed. And discouraged, Lessa thought. Tillek’s Lord Holder must have been hoping to press the extermination of Thread on the Red Star.
“Of that we are not sure,” replied Wansor with no lessening of the authority in his manner. Lessa approved more and more of Wansor. A man ought not be afraid to say he didn’t know. Nor a woman.
The Lord of Tillek did not want to leave the instrument. Almost as if he hoped, Lessa thought, that if he looked long enough, he’d discover a good argument for mounting an expedition.
Tillek finally responded to Nessel of Crom’s acid remarks and stepped aside.
“What do you think is the land, Sangel? Or did you really see anything?”
“Of course I did. Saw the clouds plain as I see you right now.”
Oterel of Tillek snorted contemptuously. “Which doesn’t say much, considering the darkness.”
“I saw as much as you did, Oterel. Gray masses, and black masses and those clouds. A star having clouds! Doesn’t make sense. Pern has clouds!”
Hastily Lessa changed her laugh at the man’s indignation to a cough, but she caught the Harper’s amused look and wondered what his reaction to the Red Star would be. Would he be for, or against this expedition? And which attitude did she want him to express?
“Yes, Pern has clouds,” Oterel was saying, somewhat surprised at that observation. “And if Pern has clouds, and more water surface than land, then so does the Red Star . . .”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Sangel protested.
“And there’ll be a way of distinguishing land from water, too,” Oterel went on, ignoring the Boll Lord. “Let me have another look, there, Nessel,” he said, pushing the Crom Lord out of the way.
“Now, wait a minute there, Tillek.” And Nessel put a proprietary hand on the instrument. As Tillek jostled him, the tripod tottered and the distance-viewer, on its hastily rigged swivel, assumed a new direction.
“Now you’ve done it,” Oterel cried. “I only wanted to see if you could distinguish the land from the water.”
Wansor tried to get between the two Lords so that he could adjust his precious instrument.
“I didn’t get my full turn,” Nessel complained, trying to keep physical possession of the distance-viewer.
“You’ll not see anything, Lord Nessel, if Wansor cannot have a chance to sight back on the Star,” Fandarel said, politely gesturing the Crom Lord out of the way.
“You’re a damned wherry fool, Nessel,” Lord Groghe said, pulling him to one side and waving Wansor in.
“Tillek’s the fool.”
“I saw enough to know there’s not as much dark as there is that gray,” Oterel said, defensively. “Pern’s more water than land. So’s the Red Star.”
“From one look you can tell so much, Oterel?” Meron’s malicious drawl from the shadows distracted everyone.
Lessa moved pointedly aside as he strolled forward, stroking his bronze lizard possessively. It affronted Lessa that the little creature was humming with pleasure.
“It will take many observations, by many eyes,” Fandarel said in his bass rumble, “before we will be able to say what the Red Star looks like with any certitude. One point of similarity is not enough. Not at all.”
“Oh, indeed. Indeed.” Wansor seconded his Craftmaster, his eyes glued to the piece as he slowly swung it across the night sky.
“What’s taking you so long?” Nessel of Crom demanded irritably. “There’s the Star. We can all see it with our naked eyes.”
“And it is so easy to pick out the green pebble you drop on the sands of Igen at high noon?” asked Robinton.
“Ah. I’ve got it,” Wansor cried. Nessel jumped forward, reaching for the tube. He jerked his hand back, remembering what an unwise movement could do. With both hands conspicuously behind him, he looked again at the Red Star.
Nessel, however, did not remain long at the distance-viewer. When Oterel stepped forward, the Masterharper moved quicker.
“My turn now, I believe, since all the Lord Holders have had one sighting.”
“Only fair,” Sangel said loudly, glaring at Oterel.
Lessa watched the Masterharper closely, saw the tightening of his broad shoulders as he, too, felt the impact of that first sight of their ancient enemy. He did not remain long, or perhaps she was deceived, but he straightened slowly from the eyepiece and looked thoughtfully toward the Red Star in the dark heavens above them.
“Well, Harper?” asked Meron superciliously. “You’ve a glib word for every occasion.”
Robinton regarded the Nabolese for a longer moment than he had the Star.
“I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us.”
“Ha! I thought as much.” Meron was grinning with odious triumph.
“I wasn’t aware you thought,” Robinton remarked quietly.
“What do you mean, Meron?” Lessa asked in a dangerously edged voice, “you thought as much?”
“Why, it should be obvious,” and the Lord of Nabol had not tempered his attitude toward her much since his first insult. “The Harper does as Benden Weyr decrees. And since Benden Weyr does not care to exterminate Thread at source . . .”
“And how do you know that?” Lessa demanded coldly.
“And, Lord Nabol, on what grounds do you base your allegation that the Harper of Pern does as Benden Weyr decrees? For I most urgently suggest that you either prove such an accusation instantly or retract it.” Robinton’s hand was on his belt knife.
The bronze lizard on Meron’s arm began to hiss and extend
his fragile wings in alarm. The Lord of Nabol contented himself with a knowing smirk as he made a show of soothing his lizard.
“Speak up, Meron,” Oterel demanded.
“But it’s so obvious. Surely you can all see that,” Meron replied with malicious affability and a feigned surprise at the obtuseness of the others. “He has a hopeless passion for—the Benden Weyrwoman.”
For a moment Lessa could only stare at the man in a stunned daze. It was true that she admired and respected Robinton. She was fond of him, she supposed. Always glad to see him and never bothering to disguise it but—Meron was mad. Trying to undermine the country’s faith in dragonmen with absurd, vicious rumors. First Kylara and now . . . And yet Kylara’s weakness, her promiscuity, the general attitude of the Hold and Craft toward the customs of the Weyrs made his accusation so plausible . . .
Robinton’s hearty guffaw startled her. And wiped the smile from Nabol’s face.
“Benden’s Weyrwoman has not half the attraction for me that Benden’s wine has!”
There was such intense relief in the faces around her that Lessa knew, in a sinking, sick way, that the Lord Holders had been halfway to believing Meron’s invidious accusation. If Robinton had not responded just as he had, if she had started to protest the accusation . . . She grinned, too, managed to chuckle because the Masterharper’s fondness for wine, for the Benden wines in particular, was such common knowledge, it was more plausible than Meron’s slander. Ridicule was a better defense than truth.
“Furthermore,” the Harper went on, “the Masterharper of Pern has no opinion, one way or another, about the Red Star—not even a verse. Because that—that—child’s miggsy scares him juiceless and makes him yearn for some of that Benden wine, right now, in limitless quantity.” Robinton had not the slightest trace of laughter in his voice now. “I’m too steeped in the history and lore of our beloved Pern, I’ve sung too many ballads about the evil of the Red Star to want to get any closer to it. Even that—” and he pointed to the distance-viewer, “brings it far too near me. But the men who have to fight Thread day after day, Turn after Turn, can look upon it with less fearfulness than the poor Harper. And, Meron, Lord Holder of Nabol, you can wager every field and cot and hall upon your lands that the dragonmen of every Weyr would like to be quit of any obligation to keep your hide Threadfree—even if it means wiping Thread from every squared length of that Star.” The vehemence in the Harper’s voice caused Meron to take a backward step, to clap a hand on the violently agitated fire lizard. “How can you, any of you,” and the Harper’s opprobrium fell equally now on the other four Lords, “doubt that the dragonriders wouldn’t be as relieved as you to see the end of their centuries of dedication to your safety. They don’t have to defend you from Thread. You, Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Oterel, you all ought to realize that by now. You’ve had T’kul to deal with, and T’ron.
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