Two days later, with Threadfall due over lower Benden and Upper Nerat, M’tal grimaced. Three of the severely wounded dragons had gone between. And there were eight more feverish dragons. He would be leading only one hundred and ninety-six dragons—slightly more than two flights of dragons—against Thread over Nerat.
We will fight smarter this time, M’tal thought confidently.
He knew from the Records of the Second Pass that the Weyr had successfully fought Thread with less than one full flight—three wings of dragons. He also knew that the casualties in those Threadfalls had been much higher than when more of the Weyr’s strength was available.
Well, it can’t be helped, he told himself. Gaminth, give the order to go between to Nerat Tip.
With the lush green of lower Benden below them and clear skies above, M’tal surveyed the arrayed wings approvingly as they awaited the coming of Thread. He had three wings arranged as one flight flying high, with a second flight behind and lower. The sixteen spare dragons were arranged in a “short wing,” trailing behind the lower flight but ready to fill in any gaps either as individual dragons or as a full wing.
M’tal squinted, scanning the sky above him for signs of Thread. Wouldn’t it just be too much if Thread failed to fall? he mused sourly.
A dragon’s roar alerted him. There! Faintly, like a blur on the sky above, he saw it. As one, the dragons of Benden turned to their riders for firestone; as one the riders fed them the flame-bearing rock; and as one the dragons chewed the rock, digesting it deep in their second stomachs.
As one, the Weyr rose to flame Thread.
And then, behind him, dragons bugled a strange challenge. M’tal turned in surprise to find the source of their bafflement.
“What is she doing?” M’tal bellowed in outrage.
Far below and behind him, he spied the large wings of Benden’s only mature queen dragon.
Thread! Gaminth warned—but it was too late. A stream of fire seared across M’tal’s cheek and onto his chest before the nothing of between brought blessed relief from the agony of Threadscore.
M’tal clawed off the frozen Thread and then they were back in daylight again.
Gaminth, tell her to return to the Weyr! M’tal ordered.
Minith says that Tullea says it is her “duty” to be here at Threadfall, Gaminth informed him.
M’tal’s rage grew as he watched the flying formations behind him dissolve and grow unmanaged, with some bronzes striving to protect their queen.
Order the “short wing” to protect her, M’tal said. And have the rest of the wings re-form.
His orders had little effect on the chaos behind him. Grimly, M’tal wondered if it had been a wise idea to put his wing in the forefront. It had seemed a good choice to lead from the front, but he hadn’t counted on not being able to handle the confusion behind him—he hadn’t expected this sort of confusion!
Tell Minith that I order her back to the Weyr, M’tal said to his dragon. She is too near her mating flight to risk Threadscore now.
Minith says to tell you that Tullea is only doing her duty, Gaminth relayed apologetically.
“Talk to Lorana!” M’tal shouted out loud. “Have her explain it to Minith.”
Behind him, M’tal could hear dragons shrieking in pain as Thread struck them. It didn’t have to be this way, he thought furiously to himself. Damn the girl! I’ll wring her neck myself when we get back.
She is gone, Gaminth reported. The wings are re-forming. It will be all right.
Tullea jumped off her dragon as soon as she landed at Benden Weyr and launched herself toward Lorana, shrieking at the top of her lungs, “How dare you! How dare you call my dragon back!”
Lorana was tending an injured rider and had no time to rise to her feet before the other queen rider was upon her. Kindan raced over to her side, but it was Arith, awakened by the raw emotion of Tullea’s assault, who arrived first, appearing from between with a cold burst of air.
The little queen hissed at Tullea, who found herself skidding to a halt. Behind her, Minith rumbled a warning at Arith, but Arith only hissed at her, too.
“Tullea, what is this?” Salina demanded as she appeared, breathless, having run all the way across the Bowl. “What is going on?”
“M’tal had me order Minith back to the Weyr,” Lorana explained, her bandaging done. The wounded dragon’s grateful rider rose with her and stood beside her. Lorana motioned Arith aside. “I’m sorry Tullea, but M’tal explained that if Minith were injured, she might not mate.”
Tullea’s eyes widened as the words sunk home. “I was doing my duty,” she said dully. “I’m supposed to take on the duties of the Weyrwoman.”
“When there is only one mature queen,” Salina told her, “those duties do not include flying against Thread.”
Tullea nodded, but her gaze turned back to Lorana. “You had no right,” she told her hotly, “to order my queen about.”
“It was M’tal’s orders,” Lorana protested.
“M’tal!” Tullea snapped and started to say more, but a hiss from both Salina behind her and the dragonrider beside Lorana forestalled her from saying more. She glared at the rider, who did not flinch, and then at Lorana. “You will not tell my dragon what to do, girl.”
“I have more patients to attend,” Lorana said, ignoring the comment. “Arith, it’s all right. Go back to your weyr, dear.”
“This isn’t over,” Tullea growled at Lorana’s back.
“If you’re interested in a Weyrwoman’s duties, Tullea, now is a good time to start,” Salina said from behind her. “There is numbweed ready and those who need it.”
Tullea’s hands clenched at her sides and she turned sharply to glare at Salina, but the old Weyrwoman merely gestured toward the Lower Caverns.
“I can’t say I think much of your teaching,” a voice growled in Kindan’s ear later that evening as he sat at one of the dining tables in the Food Cavern.
Startled, Kindan looked up to see K’tan looking down at him, grim-faced. Kindan gave him a quizzical look.
“You are responsible for teaching dragonriders their manners, are you not?” K’tan asked.
“Mmm, that might be more a function of the Weyrlingmaster than the harper,” Kindan returned, his eyes twinkling. “I take it you heard of the exchange today between Tullea and—”
“Just about everybody,” K’tan returned. A puzzled look crossed his face. “She’s the only person I’ve ever heard of who got less sociable after she Impressed.”
“That was—what?—three Turns back, now?” Kindan mused.
K’tan nodded. “She’s weyrbred. She was quite the charmer even before she Impressed. I had an occasion—”
Kindan snorted. “I would have thought you had better taste!”
K’tan glared down at him. “As I said, she was more sociable back then,” he said.
“There, you see, it’s not my fault,” Kindan said with a smile.
K’tan laughed and sat down beside him. “I know, lad, I was just ribbing you.” He let out a long, tired sigh. “You did good work today,” he said. “You’ve the makings of a good healer. Perhaps you learned from Master Zist—”
“Masterharper Zist, if you please,” Kindan corrected. “We harpers are rather touchy about rank.”
K’tan snorted. “Very well, Journeyman Kindan.” He lowered his voice so that it would travel only to Kindan’s ears. “Not that I haven’t heard that you’d been tapped for Master.”
“This doesn’t seem like a good time to leave the Weyr,” Kindan replied.
K’tan clapped him on the shoulder. “Good on you, lad,” he said. “And you’re right, this isn’t a good time to leave the Weyr.” His voice dropped. “There might not be a Weyr left on your return.”
Kindan raised an eyebrow. “The losses today weren’t that bad, were they?”
K’tan shook his head. “No, thank goodness. We lost four, though—more than we would have if it hadn’t been for her.”
“Another fifteen severely wounded and twenty-two with minor injuries,” the Weyr healer went on.
“How’s M’tal taking it?” Kindan asked, careful to keep his voice low.
K’tan gave him a measuring look. “Badly. Worse than he should, I think.”
“What about the other Weyrs—how have they done?” Kindan asked.
K’tan shook his head. “I haven’t heard.”
“I would have thought you would have been in touch with the other healers,” Kindan remarked.
“I’ve only met G’trial of Ista,” K’tan replied. “But none of the others.”
“And what does G’trial say?”
K’tan’s face grew closed. “His dragon went between two days back,” he said, waving aside Kindan’s attempts at commiseration, “but I’d heard that there were more sick dragons at Ista than at Benden.”
“Ista has to fight Thread three more times in the next nine days,” Kindan remarked. That much he had learned from the Records.
“It’s going to be tough, then,” K’tan said. “What about us?”
Kindan smiled. “We’re getting a break. We’ve got nineteen days before Thread falls over Upper Bitra.”
K’tan shook his head. “None of the injured we’ve got will be ready by then.”
L’tor approached them. “K’tan, when you’ve got a moment, M’tal would like to talk with you.”
K’tan rose. “I’m ready now.”
Kindan rose with him. “I’ve got to get back to the Records.”
“It’d be better if you could find out about the other Weyrs,” K’tan said. The Weyrs operated autonomously and some, such as D’gan’s Telgar and D’vin’s High Reaches, were unwilling to discuss their internal affairs with outsiders.
A thoughtful look crept into Kindan’s eyes. He nodded his head decisively. “I’ll do that,” he said.
“How?”
“Do you suppose M’tal would be willing to spare K’tan long enough for him to give me a lift?” Kindan asked L’tor. “I feel a need to practice some drumming.”
The Weyr drum was up on the watch heights. When he was up here during the day, Kindan never tired of the view. As it was, in the evening it was cold, and a steady wind leached all heat from him. Still, if he peered carefully and held steady enough, Kindan could make out the fire-pits of Bitra Hold to the west and maybe, or maybe it was his imagination, a faint glow from Benden Hold to the south. Kindan adjusted his drum to point more toward Bitra.
He took his sticks and pounded out “Attention.” Then he waited. Several seconds later, and closer than he’d imagined, he heard a drummer respond with “Proceed.” Kindan grinned. Clearly some minor hold that he hadn’t noticed before had recently gotten a drummer. Excellent.
He leaned into the beat to rap out his message, hoping that he had phrased it with sufficient nonchalance that it wouldn’t alarm the relayers but would still yield its true meaning to Masterharper Zist, the intended recipient.
The message sent, he listened carefully to the drummer repeating it back, and on to the next drummer in the station. With any luck, sometime in the next day or so, Masterharper Zist would get the message.
Which meant, Kindan realized with a groan, that there had to be someone up here listening for the answer for the next several days.
“I’ll get one of the weyrlings,” he said to himself, glad that there was no one else to notice his chagrin.
L’tor directed K’tan to the Council Room. As they entered, K’tan noticed that the only other rider present was B’nik, who looked rather uncomfortable.
Get used to it, lad, K’tan thought. If you want to lead, it’s going to get harder.
He made a face, annoyed with himself for thinking so sourly of B’nik. He had known the rider since before he’d Impressed, and the truth was that B’nik was a steady, careful rider and a good leader. It was only B’nik’s continued association with Tullea that marred K’tan’s opinion of him.
“Glad you’re here,” M’tal said as he caught sight of them entering the room. He gestured to a pitcher. “There’s warm klah if you need it.”
K’tan silently shook his head and found a seat.
“Did Kindan have any news?” M’tal asked.
K’tan shook his head. “He asked to be dropped up to the watch heights to drum a message to the Masterharper.”
B’nik frowned. “What for?”
K’tan shrugged. “I don’t know, to be honest,” he said. “We were talking about the losses of the other Weyrs before L’tor found us, so . . .”
“I’d heard that he had thought of asking the Masterharper if there were any Records of illness kept at the Harper Hall,” L’tor suggested.
“He could have done both,” M’tal said. He looked at the others seated around the table. “We could use all the information we can get,” he admitted. He held up a slate. “I’ve been looking at our strength, trying to get an estimate of how we’ll fare.
“We started this Pass with over three hundred and seventy fighting dragons,” he said. “After two Falls, we’re down to two hundred and fifteen.”
“I thought it was more than that,” B’nik said. “Are you counting the coughing ones?”
M’tal shook his head. “No, I’m counting them as sick,” he said, “and I wish I’d kept them back from the first Fall. I think we lost most of our dragons because they were so muddled they got lost between.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that, M’tal,” K’tan said heatedly. “Dragons don’t get sick, no one knew—”
“Well, they’re sick now,” M’tal cut in. “And until they’re better, I’m not letting sick ones fly with us.”
B’nik frowned. “But the losses—”
M’tal held up a hand. “They were worse when the sick ones flew with us.”
“The last Fall was a short one—you can’t really compare the two,” K’tan said.
“Even allowing for the length of the Fall,” M’tal corrected, “the losses were much higher when the sick ones flew.
“The real question is, how many more will get sick and how soon?” M’tal asked, looking pointedly at K’tan.
K’tan shook his head. “I can’t say. Lorana, Kindan, and I have been going through the Records and so far haven’t found anything like this. We’ve got nothing to compare it with: Dragons—and fire-lizards—haven’t gotten sick before.”
M’tal gave the Weyr healer a long look, then sighed deeply. “In nineteen days, we fly against Thread over Bitra. I need some idea of how many dragons will be flying,” he said slowly. He looked at B’nik. “If things go well, I’d like you to lead that Fall.”
The others in the room startled. M’tal raised a hand to quell their impending speech. “It’s customary for the Weyrleader to ask other Wingleaders to lead a Fall,” he said. “It’s good practice, too. No one can ever say when a Weyrleader might be injured or lost between.
“And,” he added, “there’s a very good likelihood that Caranth will fly Minith when she rises. It will make the transition easier all around if you’ve had some experience leading a Fall beforehand.”
B’nik spluttered for several moments before regaining his speech. “M’tal—I’m honored,” he said finally.
“Don’t be,” M’tal said firmly. “You’re a good rider. You’re good enough to know it, too. I’d be asking you to lead a Fall soon enough even if”—he paused, taking a deep breath—“even if Salina were still Weyrwoman.”
M’tal looked back to K’tan. “That’s why I want to know what you think our strength will be. It will be hard enough for B’nik to lead a Fall the first time, even with everything under control. It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to lead one without giving him some idea of the number of dragons he’ll be leading.”
K’tan nodded in understanding, then closed his eyes in thought. When he looked up moments later, his face was clouded. “The trouble is, I can’t really gi
ve you a decent guess, M’tal,” he said. “We don’t know how many dragons were lost between because they had the sickness but didn’t tell us or didn’t realize it themselves.”
Before anyone could comment, he continued, “All the same, if you look at the first sicknesses and losses, we’ve lost seventy-three dragons—not all of them to the sickness—but it’s the worst number.” He waited for M’tal to nod. “That’s seventy-three out of three hundred and eighty-five fighting dragons, or about one in five who’ve either been lost or gotten sick in the past three sevendays. So I’d say that you could possibly expect the same ratio in the next three sevendays.” He raised a cautioning hand. “It might get worse, it might get better. But, let’s say that another forty-three dragons will not be able to fly the next Fall.”
M’tal nodded, though his face was pale. He looked at B’nik. “That would leave you with about one hundred and seventy dragons,” he said. “Can you do it?”
B’nik was just as pale as the Weyrleader. “Forty-three more dragons,” he echoed, aghast. He shuddered, then forced himself to answer M’tal. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all anyone can do,” M’tal said with a satisfied nod. He stood up and turned to leave. “I’ll make the announcement tomorrow morning. After that, I want to leave the training to you.”
B’nik nodded. “I think I’ll continue with the exercises you had us doing before the last Fall,” he said after a moment. Then he grinned. “I don’t suppose your wing would mind slinging ‘Thread,’ would it?”
“I don’t suppose,” M’tal agreed with a grin and a nod. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day”—he covered his mouth to stifle a yawn—“and I’m in need of some rest.”
A voice called him urgently from sleep: “Master Zist, Master Zist!”
Masterharper Zist raised his head wearily from his pillow and blearily looked up. He made out the shape of the watch drummer, Terilar, silhouetted by the glows from the Hall.
“What time is it?” he asked, confused. Too much wine, he thought.
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