The men nodded, their eyes glinting with understanding. They were flatteringly confident of a successful Search even as F’lar’s doubts grew now that he had seen all of Fax’s women. By all logic, the pick of the High Reaches should be in Fax’s chief Hold, but they were not. Still, there were many large craftholds, not to mention the six other High Holds to visit. All the same . . .
In unspoken accord F’lar and F’nor left the barracks. The men would follow, unobtrusively, in pairs or singly, to reconnoiter the crafthold and the neater farmholds. The men were as overtly eager to be abroad as F’lar was privately. There had been a time when dragonmen were frequent and favored guests in all the great Holds throughout Pern, from southern Nerat to high Tillek. This pleasant custom, too, had died along with other observances, evidence of the low regard in which the Weyr was presently held. F’lar vowed to correct this.
He forced himself to trace in memory the insidious changes. The Records, which each Weyrwoman kept, were proof of the gradual but perceptible decline, traceable through the past two hundred full Turns. Knowing the facts did not alleviate the condition. And F’lar was of that scant handful in the Weyr itself who did credit Records and ballad alike. The situation might shortly reverse itself radically if the old tales were to be believed.
There was a reason, an explanation, a purpose, F’lar felt, for every one of the Weyr Laws from First Impression to the Firestones, from the grass-free heights to ridge-running gutters. For elements as minor as controlling the appetite of a dragon to limiting the inhabitants of the Weyr. Although why the other five Weyrs had been abandoned F’lar did not know. Idly he wondered if there were Records, dusty and crumbling, lodged in the disused Weyrs. He must contrive to check when next his wings flew patrol. Certainly there was no explanation in Benden Weyr.
“There is industry but no enthusiasm,” F’nor was saying, drawing F’lar’s attention back to their tour of the crafthold.
They had descended the guttered ramp from the Hold into the crafthold proper, the broad roadway lined with cottages up to the imposing stone crafthalls. Silently F’lar noted moss-clogged gutters on the roofs, the vines clasping the walls. It was painful for one of his calling to witness the flagrant disregard of simple safety precautions. Growing things were forbidden near the habitations of mankind.
“News travels fast,” F’nor chuckled, nodding at a hurrying craftsman, in the smock of a baker, who gave them a mumbled good-day. “Not a female in sight”
His observation was accurate. Women should be abroad at this hour, bringing in supplies from the storehouses, washing in the river on such a bright warm day, or going out to the farmholds to help with planting. Not a gowned figure in sight.
“We used to be preferred mates,” F’nor remarked caustically.
“We’ll visit the Clothmen’s Hall first. If my memory serves me . . .”
“As it always does . . .” F’nor interjected wryly. He took no advantage of their blood relationship, but he was more at ease with the bronze rider than most of the dragonmen, the other bronze riders included. F’lar was reserved in a close-knit society of easy equality. He flew a tightly disciplined wing, but men maneuvered to serve under him. His wing always excelled in the Games. None ever floundered in between to disappear forever, and no beast in his wing sickened, leaving a man in dragonless exile from the Weyr, a part of him numb forever.
“L’tol came this way and settled in one of the High Reaches,” F’lar continued.
“L’tol?”
“Yes, a green rider from S’lel’s wing. You remember.”
An ill-timed swerve during the Spring Games had brought L’tol and his beast into the full blast of a phosphine emission from S’lel’s bronze Tuenth. L’tol had been thrown from his beast’s neck as the dragon tried to evade the blast. Another wingmate had swooped to catch the rider, but the green dragon, his left wing crisped, his body scorched, had died of shock and phosphine poisoning.
“L’tol would aid our Search,” F’nor agreed as the two dragonmen walked up to the bronze doors of the Clothmen’s Hall. They paused on the threshold, adjusting their eyes to the dimmer light within. Glows punctuated the wall recesses and hung in clusters above the larger looms where the finer tapestries and fabrics were woven by master craftsmen. The pervading mood was one of quiet, purposeful industry.
Before their eyes had adapted, however, a figure glided to them, muttering a polite if curt request for them to follow him.
They were led to the right of the entrance, to a small office, curtained from the main hall. Their guide turned to them, his face visible in the wallglows. There was that air about that marked him indefinably as a dragonman. But his face was lined deeply, one side seamed with old burn marks. His eyes, sick with a hungry yearning, dominated his face. He blinked constantly.
“I am now Lytol,” he said in harsh voice.
F’lar nodded acknowledgment.
“You would be F’lar,” Lytol said, “and you F’nor. You both have the look of your sire.”
F’lar nodded again.
Lytol swallowed convulsively, the muscles in his face twitching as the presence of dragonmen revived his awareness of exile. He essayed a smile.
“Dragons in the sky! The news spread faster than Threads.”
“Nemorth has laid a female.”
“And Jora dead?” Lytol asked concernedly, his face cleared of its nervous movement for a second. “Hath flew her?”
F’lar nodded.
Lytol grimaced bitterly. “R’gul again, huh?” He stared off in the middle distance, his eyelids quiet but the muscles along his jaw taking up the constant movement. “You have the High Reaches? All of them?” Lytol asked, turning back to the dragonman, a slight emphasis on “all.”
F’lar gave an affirmative nod again.
“You’ve seen the women.” Lytol’s disgust showed through the words. It was a statement, not a question, for he hurried on. “Well, there are no better in all the High Reaches.” His tone expressed utmost disdain. He eased himself down to the heavy table that half-filled one corner of the small room. His hands were clenched so tightly around the wide belt that secured the loose tunic to his body that the heavy leather was doubled.
“You would almost expect the opposite, wouldn’t you?” Lytol continued. He was talking too much and too fast. It would have been insultingly rude in another, lesser man. It was the terrible loneliness of the man’s exile from the Weyr that drove him to garrulity. Lytol skimmed the surfaces with hurried questions he himself answered, rather than dip once into matters too tender to be touched—such as his insatiable need for those of his kind. Yet he was giving the dragonmen exactly the information they needed. “But Fax likes his women comfortably fleshed and docile,” Lytol rattled on. “Even the Lady Gemma has learned. It’d be different if he didn’t need her family’s support. Ah, it would be different indeed. So he keeps her pregnant, hoping to kill her in childbed one day. And he will. He will.”
Lytol’s laughter grated unpleasantly.
“When Fax came to power, any man with wit sent his daughters down from the High Reaches or drew a brand across their faces.” He paused, his countenance dark and bitter memory, his eyes slits of hatred. “I was a fool and thought my position gave me immunity.”
Lytol drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, turning full to the two dragonmen. His expression was vindictive, his voice low and tense.
“Kill that tyrant, dragonmen, for the sake and safety of Pern. Of the Weyr. Of the queen. He only bides his time. He spreads discontent among the other Lords. He—” Lytol’s laughter had an hysterical edge to it now. “He fancies himself as good as dragonmen.”
“There are no candidates then in this Hold?” F’lar said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the man’s preoccupation with his curious theory.
Lytol stared at the bronze rider. “Did I not say it? The best either died under Fax or were sent away. What remains is nothing, nothing. Weak-minded, ignorant, foolish, vapid. You had
that with Jora. She—” His jaw snapped shut over his next words. He shook his head, scrubbing his face to ease his anguish and despair.
“In the other Holds?”
Lytol shook his head, frowning darkly. “The same. Either dead or fled.”
“What of Ruath Hold?”
Lytol stopped shaking his head and looked sharply at F’lar, his lips curling in a cunning smile. He laughed mirthlessly.
“You think to find a Torene or a Moreta hidden at Ruath Hold in these times? Well, bronze rider, all of Ruathan Blood are dead. Fax’s blade was thirsty that day. He knew the truth of those harpers’ tales, that Ruathan Lords gave full measure of hospitality to dragonmen and the Ruathan were a breed apart. There were, you know”—Lytol’s voice dropped to a confiding whisper—“exiled Weyrmen like myself in that Line.”
F’lar nodded gravely, unwilling to deprive the man of such a sop to his self-esteem.
“No, there is little, very little left in Ruatha Valley.” Lytol chuckled softly. “Fax gets nothing from that Hold but trouble.” This reflection restored Lytol to a semblance of normal behavior, and his face twisted into a better humor. “We of this Hold are now the best clothmen in all Pern. And our smithies turn out a better tempered weapon.” His eyes sparkled with pride in his adopted community. “The conscripts from Ruatha tend to die of curious diseases or accidents. And the women Fax used to take . . .” His laugh was nasty. “It is rumored he was impotent for months after.”
F’lar’s active mind jumped to a curious conclusion. “There are none of the Blood left?”
“None!”
“Any families in the holdings with Weyr blood?”
Lytol frowned, glanced in surprise at F’lar. He rubbed the scarred side of his face thoughtfully.
“There were,” he admitted slowly. “There were. But I doubt if any live on.” He thought a moment longer, then shook his head emphatically. “There was such resistance at the invasion and no quarter given. At the Hold Fax beheaded ladies as well as babes. And he imprisoned or executed any known to have carried arms for Ruatha.”
F’lar shrugged. The idea had been a probability only. With such severe reprisals, Fax undoubtedly had eliminated the resistance as well as the best craftsmen. That would account for the poor quality of Ruathan products and the emergence of the High Reaches’ clothmen as the best in their trade.
“I wish I had better news for you, dragonman,” Lytol murmured.
“No matter,” F’lar reassured him, one hand poised to part the hanging in the doorway.
Lytol came up to him swiftly, his voice urgent.
“Heed what I say about Fax’s ambitions. Force R’gul, or whoever is Weyrleader next, to keep watch on the High Reaches.”
“Is Fax aware of your leanings?”
The haunted, hungry yearning crossed Lytol’s face. He swallowed nervously, answering with no emotion in his voice.
“That would not signify if it suited the Lord of the High Reaches, but my guild protects me from persecution. I am safe enough in the craft. He is dependent on the proceeds of our industy.” He snorted, mocking. “I am the best weaver of battle scenes. To be sure,” he added, cocking one eyebrow waggishly, “dragons are no longer woven in the fabric as the comrades of heroes. You noticed, of course, the prevalence of growing greens?”
F’lar grimaced his distaste. “That is not all we have noted, either. But Fax keeps the other traditions. . . .”
Lytol waved this consideration aside. “He does that because it is basic military sense. His neighbors armed after he took Ruatha, for he did it by treachery, let me tell you. And let me warn you also”—Lytol jabbed a finger in the direction of the Hold—“he scoffs openly at tales of the Threads. He taunts the harpers for the stupid nonsense of the old ballads and has banned from their repertoire all dragonlore. The new generation will grow up totally ignorant of duty, tradition, and precaution.”
F’lar was not surprised to hear that on top of Lytol’s other disclosures, although it disturbed him more than anything else he had heard. Other men, too, denied the verbal transmissions of historic events, accounting them no more than the maunderings of harpers. Yet the Red Star pulsed in the sky, and the time was drawing near when they would hysterically re-avow the old allegiances in fear for their very lives.
“Have you been abroad in the early morning of late?” asked F’nor, grinning maliciously.
“I have,” Lytol breathed out in a hushed, choked whisper. “I have. . . .” A groan was wrenched from his guts, and he whirled away from the dragonmen, his head bowed between hunched shoulders. “Go,” he said, gritting his teeth. And, as they hesitated, he pleaded, “Go!”
F’lar walked quickly from the room, followed by F’nor. The bronze rider crossed the quiet dim Hall with long strides and exploded into the startling sunlight. His momentum took him into the center of the square. There he stopped so abruptly that F’nor, hard on his heels, nearly collided with him.
“We will spend exactly the same time within the other Halls,” he announced in a tight voice, his face averted from F’nor’s eyes. F’lar’s throat was constricted. It was difficult suddenly for him to speak. He swallowed hard, several times.
“To be dragonless . . .” murmured F’nor pityingly. The encounter with Lytol had roiled his depths in a mournful way to which he was unaccustomed. That F’lar appeared equally shaken went far to dispel F’nor’s private opinion that his half brother was incapable of emotion.
“There is no other way once First Impression has been made. You know that,” F’lar roused himself to say curtly. He strode off to the Hall bearing the leather-men’s device.
Honor those the dragons heed,
In thought and favor, word and deed.
Worlds are lost or worlds are saved
From those dangers dragon-braved.
Dragonman, avoid excess;
Greed will bring the Weyr distress;
To the ancient Laws adhere,
Prospers thus the Dragonweyr.
F’lar was amused . . . and unamused. This was their fourth day in Fax’s company, and only F’lar’s firm control on self and wing was keeping the situation from exploding into violence.
It had been a turn of chance, F’lar mused, as Mnementh held his leisurely glide toward the Breast Pass into Ruatha, that he, F’lar, had chosen the High Reaches. Fax’s tactics would have been successful with R’gul, who was very conscious of his honor, or S’lan or D’nol, who were too young to have developed much patience or discretion. S’lel would have retreated in confusion, a course nearly as disastrous for the Weyr as combat.
He should have correlated the indications long ago. The decay of the Weyr and its influence did not come solely from the Holding Lords and their folk. It came also from within the Weyr, a result of inferior queens and incompetent Weyrwomen. It came from R’gul’s inexplicable insistence on not “bothering” the Holders, on keeping dragonmen within the Weyr. And yet within the Weyr there had been too much emphasis on preparation for the Games until the internal competition between wings had become the be-all and end-all of Weyr activity.
The encroachment of grass had not come overnight, nor had the Lords awakened one morning recently and decided in a flash not to give all their traditional tithe to the Weyr. It had happened gradually and had been allowed, by the Weyr, to continue, until the purpose and reason of the Weyr and dragonkind had reached this low ebb, where an upstart, collateral heir to an ancient Hold could be so contemptuous of dragon men and the simple basic precautions that kept Pern free of Threads.
F’lar doubted that Fax would have attempted such a program of aggression against neighboring Holds if the Weyr had maintained its old prominence. Each Hold must have its Lord to protect valley and folk from the Threads. One Hold, one Lord—not one Lord claiming seven Holds. That was against ancient tradition, and evil besides, for how well can one man protect seven valleys at once? Man, except for dragon-man, can be in only one place at a time. And unless a man was dragon-
mounted, it took hours to get from one Hold to another. No Weyrman of old would have permitted such flagrant disregard of ancient ways.
F’lar saw the gouts of flame along the barren heights of the Pass, and Mnementh obediently altered his glide for a better view. F’lar had sent half the wing ahead of the main cavalcade. It was good training for them to skim irregular terrain. He had issued small pieces of firestone with instructions to sear any growths as practice. It would do to remind Fax, as well as his troops, of the awesome ability of dragon-kind, a phenomenon the common folk of Pern appeared to have all but forgotten.
The fiery phosphine emissions as the dragons belched forth gasses showed the pattern well flown. R’gul could argue against the necessity of firestone drills, he could cite such incidents as that which had exiled Lytol, but F’lar kept the tradition—and so did every man who flew with him, or they left the wing. None failed him.
F’lar knew that the men reveled as much as he did in the fierce joy of riding a flaming dragon; the fumes of phosphine were exhilarating in their own way, and the feeling of power that surged through the man who controlled the might and majesty of a dragon had no parallel in human experience. Dragon-riders were forever men apart once First Impression had been made. And to ride a fighting dragon, blue, green, brown, or bronze, was worth the risks, the unending alertness, the isolation from the rest of mankind.
Mnementh dipped his wings obliquely to slide through the narrow cleft of the Pass that led from Crom to Ruatha. No sooner had they emerged from the cut than the difference between the two Holds was patent.
F’lar was stunned. Through the last four Holds he had been sure that the end of the Search lay within Ruatha.
There had been that little brunette whose father was a clothman in Nabol, but . . . And a tall, willowy girl with enormous eyes, the daughter of a minor Warder in Crom, yet . . . These were possibilities, and had F’lar been S’lel or K’net or D’nol, he might have taken the two in as potential mates, although not likely Weyrwomen.
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 3