“About what?” Purman asked, turning from one to the other, realizing slowly that the conversation was for his benefit.
“About the dragons, the watch-whers, and the grubs,” the Benden Weyrleader replied.
“And now, Purman’s vine-grubs,” Wind Blossom added.
“Don’t forget the felines in the Southern Continent,” M’hall countered.
Wind Blossom cocked her head toward Purman. “How much can you tell us about the felines?”
Purman shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“The dragons, watch-whers, and grubs are all modifications to Pern’s ecosystem,” Wind Blossom said, as if that were explanation enough.
Purman pursed his lips in thought. “The dragons fight Thread from on high, and the grubs catch it down low,” he said after a moment.
“But the grubs do more than that, don’t they?” Wind Blossom prompted.
Purman nodded slowly.
“My mother made the dragons and I made the watch-whers,” Wind Blossom said. M’hall snorted derisively at her, but she held up a restraining hand. “That is what everyone has been told, M’hall.”
Purman cocked an eyebrow at this exchange. “My father bred the felines and the grubs,” he said after a moment. “The grubs protect Pern, so you were wondering if I knew the purpose of the felines?”
Wind Blossom nodded.
Purman shook his head, sadly. “My father never said,” he told them. “He was very excited with them, said that he would show everyone, but I was too little and he never tried to talk to me.” He frowned at old memories.
“I don’t think he trusted me to keep his secrets,” he admitted.
“My mother believes that there are too many secrets on Pern,” M’hall said, looking back and forth between the two of them. “She is afraid that something will happen and that vital information will be lost, to the detriment of all.”
Wind Blossom had been scrutinizing Purman’s face carefully while M’hall was talking. Now she shook her head. “M’hall, I don’t think he knows.”
“Knows what?” Purman asked.
Wind Blossom answered his question with a question: “When does it end?”
“When does what end?” Purman replied, irritated.
He thought he knew M’hall, and was accepted at Benden Hold for his valuable work in adapting the grubs in a tighter symbiosis with Benden’s grape vines, but now he wasn’t sure. He wondered if he was being mocked by these two for being his father’s son. His life had been so hard as a youngster that he’d changed his name, making it more Pernese and less readily identifiable with the rogue botanist.
Wind Blossom sighed, shaking her head. She reached out to take Purman’s hand in her own, soothingly. “I am sorry, Purman. I had hoped that your father had passed on his knowledge to you.”
“He told me some things,” Purman replied stiffly. “Other things I learned on my own.”
M’hall slapped his leg emphatically, exclaiming, “There, you see! That proves Mother’s point. There should be no secrets.”
“I do not disagree, M’hall,” Wind Blossom said. “But some things are pointless to know—like the knowledge of sutures—because the technology cannot support it.”
M’hall nodded reluctantly.
Purman had been thinking while the other two were talking. Now he looked at Wind Blossom. “How similar are the watch-whers to the dragons?”
M’hall snorted and gave Purman a keen smile. “You see, Wind Blossom, Purman lends weight to my point.”
Wind Blossom nodded and turned her head to face Purman. “They are very similar. I started with much of the same genetic base and the same master program.”
“What is their purpose, then?”
She raised an eyebrow in surprise, then sighed. “Your training is sparse, Purman. You should have been taught that there should always be more than one purpose in introducing a new species into an ecosystem.
“In fact, the watch-whers were intended to solve several problems,” she continued. “Dragons, by their nature, would associate only with a select few people. But they must become part of the human ecology, if you will. They must not be feared.”
“So you bred the watch-whers as something that most people could see?” Purman sounded skeptical.
“And they’re uglier than dragons, too,” M’hall added. “If you were to try to tell someone who’d never seen a dragon what they were like, you’d say like a watch-wher but bigger and prettier.”
“So their first purpose is psychological?”
“It is not their first purpose,” Wind Blossom said rather tartly. “Unlike your wines.”
Purman grunted in response and gestured for her to continue.
“I designed their eyes to be excellent in low-light situations,” Wind Blossom said, choosing her words carefully, “and particularly tuned to infrared wavelengths.”
“Don’t forget that you designed them to be more empathic than telepathic,” M’hall interjected. Wind Blossom gave him a reproving look. “Sorry,” he said, chastened.
“I altered the design of their dermis and epidermis to incorporate more of their boron crystalline skeletal materials—”
“She tried to make them armored,” M’hall translated. Wind Blossom nodded.
“It didn’t work,” M’hall added. Wind Blossom sighed. M’hall waved a hand toward her in conciliation, saying, “But it was a good idea.”
“Yes, it was,” Purman agreed, “but why? Why not incorporate those changes directly into the dragons?”
“Two different species are safer,” Wind Blossom said. “Greater diversity yields redundancy.”
Purman nodded but held up a hand as he grappled with his thoughts. Finally he looked up at the two of them. “The watch-whers fight Thread at night?”
“By themselves,” M’hall agreed, eyes gleaming in memory. “I’ve seen them once—they were magnificent. I learned a lot about fighting Thread that night.”
“They breathe fire?”
“No,” M’hall said. “They eat Thread, like the fire-lizards. They don’t need riders, either—the queens organize them all.”
“The queens?”
M’hall nodded. “Of course. They’re like dragons, or fire-lizards for that matter.”
“What about their wings?” Purman asked. “They’re so short and stubby, how do they fly?”
Wind Blossom’s eyes lit with mischief. “They fly the same way as dragons. I made the wings smaller to avoid Thread damage.”
“Why keep this a secret?” Purman asked with outrage in his voice. “Everyone should know this.”
“Why?” Wind Blossom asked. “So they’ll never sleep for fear that Thread will fall at night? How many people are content to let only your grubs protect the grapevines?”
“It doesn’t happen often,” M’hall put in. “The oxygen level in the atmosphere shrinks at night, especially in the three thousand- to fifteen hundred-meter range, and the air’s too cold to support the spores. A lot of them freeze and are blown all over the place as dust.”
“But what about those that do get through?” Purman persisted.
“It’s no different than dealing with the small amount of Thread that the dragons miss,” M’hall said. “Hopefully, the ground crews find and take care of them.”
“And they are fewer at night anyway, due to the cold.” Purman pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But on a warm night?”
M’hall recrossed his legs and shook his head ruefully. “That’s how I found out, Purman. I asked myself that same question, wondering how I could get my riders to fight day and night—especially as neither humans nor dragons can see that well at night.”
A look of wonder crossed his face as he recalled the experience. “They swarmed in from everywhere, arranged themselves by their queens, and flew up to the Thread. I was above them, at first, and they came up at me like stars coming out at night. And then they were above, swooping and diving for the still-viable clumps of Thread
.”
“They see more in the infrared range,” Wind Blossom said. “They can differentiate between the live Thread and the Thread that has been frozen by the night atmosphere.”
“So they have night vision . . .” Purman breathed.
Wind Blossom nodded. “That is why their eyes are so bad in daylight: too much light for them.”
“And Benden’s watch-wher—why did it react to tickling?” Purman asked.
Wind Blossom shook her head sadly. “I wanted them to react if they were asleep and Thread fell on them,” she said. “I had hoped to make the watch-whers tough enough to survive Thread and protect Pern . . . in case something happened to the dragons or their riders.”
Purman sat bolt upright, shocked. He looked to M’hall for confirmation, but the Weyrleader only nodded. Purman asked him, “Do you think this could happen?”
“I’m not a geneticist, Purman,” M’hall answered, “but I certainly hope not.”
Purman gave Wind Blossom a long, searching look. Finally, he said, “I remember not too long ago I had a problem with one of the vineyards. Something I hadn’t seen before. The grapes started going bad. I had to work hard to isolate the problem, and it turned out that the usual fungus that protected the grapes had been replaced by a new, more virulent strain. It took me months to finally develop a variant vine-grub to protect against that fungus.”
While he spoke, he carefully watched Wind Blossom’s reaction. When he finished, he knew. “You fear that something similar might affect the dragons, don’t you?”
Wind Blossom nodded. “The dragons are derived from the fire-lizards. The parasites that prey on the fire-lizards could also prey on the dragons.”
She frowned. “But just as you modified your grubs to aid the grape in fighting off that fungus, so the modifications to produce the dragons have rendered them immune to bacterial and viral vectors that affect fire-lizards . . . I hope.”
“But time will generate mutations,” Purman said to himself. He looked at Wind Blossom. “How much time? What sort of problems would the dragons have?”
Wind Blossom shook her head. “I do not know.”
She sighed and lay back down in her bed.
“The Eridani like to take centuries to add a new species to an ecosystem,” she continued. “At the least, even with all the urgency of Thread, my mother wanted to spend decades.
“As it was, we did not have time to research more than the most obvious disease vectors affecting the fire-lizards before my mother created the dragons.”
Wind Blossom sighed again. “I had the advantage of somewhat more research before I created the watch-whers, but still . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I must rest now,” she told them, gesturing for them to leave. She smiled up at Purman.
“Go look in on your son,” she said. “I would like him to stay here, so I can teach him all that you have not been able to.”
She rolled over in her bed. “He must stay here a while, anyway, for his wounds to heal.”
THREE
Wide ship, tall ship,
Tossed on a raging sea.
Fair ship, brave ship,
Bring my love back to me.
Near Half-Circle Sea Hold, Second Interval, AL 507
The air was cold and moist with sea spray and it pressed Lorana’s clothing tight against her body as she finished her climb to the top of Wind Rider’s highest mast. The sound of the sea and ship beneath her were all that she could hear—she could see little, for the stars were hidden by cloud and the dawn’s light was still a while off.
From the moment Wind Rider had heeled over as it caught the wind and the swells outside of Ista Harbor, Lorana had wanted to do just this—climb to the highest point on the ship, wrap her legs around the mast and hold tight while she raised her arms to the wind and felt the salt air chap her cheeks. She’d had to wait though, until she’d overcome her fear of the heeling ship, and her fear of climbing the ratlines and then beyond the crosstrees to the highest point of the ship, and she’d had to wait until she was sure no one would be watching her, for hanging in the wind was only her first goal.
She dropped her hands to her side and gingerly brought the pouch she’d draped over her shoulder from her side to her front. She carefully pulled the drawing board, already prepared with a sheet of paper, and found the charcoal stick she’d rigged by pulling on the string she’d tied between it and the board. And now, with gray all around her, Lorana quickly sketched.
The light from the rising sun gave Lorana a chance to reappraise the image in differing lights, and to compare her rendering with the sea’s majesty. The sun was just over the horizon when she was finally satisfied that she’d got the best rendering she could. It was just as well, she decided: Her fingers were tingling with the early morning cold.
“Ahoy up there!” a voice called up to her. “What of the morning?”
“Light winds, scattered clouds, red skies,” Lorana responded, stowing her supplies in her sack and starting back down the mast. She heard a groan rise up from the deck.
She made her way back aft to the tiller where Colfet had the watch. “Why the grumble on the weather?” she asked the grumpy mariner.
Baror made a sour face and spat over the rail. “Sailor take warning,” he answered shortly. Lorana’s brows arched a question.
Baror shook his head. “The old saying goes: ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.’ There’ll be a blow for sure, but I already knew that.”
Lorana had heard from others that Baror had broken his arm years back and was convinced he could tell when the weather was going to change by the way it ached.
“I just hope we get into harbor before it catches us,” he added, rubbing his arm.
Lorana sidled away from the sour seaman. Of the three mates, Baror was her least favorite. Lorana had never managed to catch him without a bitter or angry look on his face. For a while she had wondered if the old break in his forearm had left him in constant pain, but she had come to realize that Baror was simply the sort that could not pass up a chance to complain or moan.
Down on the deck, Lorana found that the sea spray had grown thicker, and she shivered from the chill. She started down below but stopped, glancing back at Baror. He was staring at her intently, as though seeing her for the first time. Quickly she turned and resumed her descent.
Captain Tanner came up the gangway opposite her.
“Good morning,” he said.
Lorana nodded and started on her way, but as she did a loud thump on the deck above was followed immediately by a groan and a string of curses—first from Colfet and then from Baror.
“Lorana!” Baror called curtly. “Get back here; Colfet’s done himself a mischief!” In a lower voice, which still carried, he muttered, “Who’ll relieve me now?”
“Come on,” Tanner told her with a jerk of his head.
“I’d better get my gear,” Lorana said, dashing back down to her cabin.
“Good idea,” Captain Tanner agreed.
Lorana was back on deck in less than two minutes, with her healer’s bag and a warm coat. A bit of numbweed stilled the worst of Colfet’s pain and grumbling, while a quick inspection showed her that the ulna was broken midway between elbow and wrist.
“Could be worse,” Colfet observed when she told him. “And now I’ll have a weather gauge.”
“Come below to my cabin—I’ll have to set it,” Lorana told him.
Tanner looked alarmed. Catching sight of a seaman coming up on deck, he called, “Gesten, Colfet’s broken his arm. Help him down below so that Lorana can go ahead and get set up.”
“No, it’s all right!” Colfet called back, putting his weight on Lorana, who nearly buckled in surprise. “Lorana’s a stout lass, we’ll manage. Besides, the weather’s picking up—you’ll be needing all hands to trim sail.”
Getting the large seaman down below to her cabin was much harder than she’d figured, but Lorana felt t
hat she’d proved herself “one of the boys” by doing so.
In the cabin, she threw her pack at the far end of the table and rummaged in the lockers for bandages and the other material she’d need.
When she came back and sat opposite to set the burly Colfet’s arm—which she was sure would be child’s play compared to Grenn’s wing—she noticed that he was gazing intently at her. She felt her face getting hot as she reached across to gently roll the seaman’s shirtsleeve up away from the break.
“You’ve a soft touch,” Colfet said appreciatively. Lorana glanced up at him to gauge his expression. Feeling her face redden in the intensity of his look, she jerked her eyes back down to the break.
“You’re lucky you didn’t break the skin.” She probed the break gently. Colfet winced. “Numbweed won’t help, I’m sorry.”
“Nor fellis,” Colfet agreed grimly, dragging a lock of his cloud-white hair away from his face with his good arm. He drew breath over his teeth with a painful hiss. “No matter, do what you need. I’ll keep my eyes on your drawings while you work, if that’s all right.”
Lorana had forgotten the drawings she’d hung in the cabin to dry out from the sea’s damp. She’d nearly run out of paper with all the sketches the crew and Captain Tanner had begged her for. Not that she hadn’t been eager to oblige; the journey in Wind Rider had given her many new subjects to draw. She had got good likenesses of dour Baror, sour Minet, and several of Captain Tanner—who, Lorana admitted to herself secretly, was more than a little rewarding to look at.
The only one she’d got of Colfet had been when he’d caught a fish. It wasn’t her best, because she had to sketch fast to catch the action, but the seaman had been so impressed that he’d forgotten the fish in favor of finding a safe place for her drawing.
“A right fine likeness,” he had said at the time.
With Colfet diverted by the drawings, Lorana could time her move to match the bucking of the ship. She eyed Colfet, eyed the break, felt the ship, and quickly jerked—
“Aaaaah! Shells, why don’t you just break it again?” Colfet shouted, face red with pain. Lorana had just missed the motion of the sea, painfully jamming the two broken pieces over each other.
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