Her crisp instructions cleared the corridor quickly until there were only the five remaining.
“The light is not made by glows,” announced the Master-smith as he peered cautiously into the bright room. “And from the smoothness of the walls, this is part of the original Weyr.” He scowled at F’lar. “Were you aware such rooms existed?” It was almost an accusation.
“There were rumors, of course,” F’lar said, stepping inside, “but I don’t think I ever got very far down any of the unused corridors when I was a weyrling. Did you, Lytol?”
The Lord Warder snorted irritably but now that he knew Jaxom was all right, he could not resist looking in.
“Perhaps you should give him leave to prowl in Ruatha if he can find treasure rooms like this one,” Robinton suggested slyly. “And what under the sun could this represent? Lessa, you’re our expert on wall hangings, what do you say?”
He pointed to a drawing, composed of weird interconnecting varicolored rods and balls which spread in several ladderlike columns from floor to ceiling.
“I wouldn’t call it artistic, but the colors are pretty,” she said, peering closely at the wall. She touched a portion with a finger. “Why, the color is baked on the wall. And look here! Someone didn’t like it although I don’t think their correction helps. It’s more a scribble than a design. And it’s not even in the same type of coloring.”
Fandarel scrutinized the drawing, his nose an inch from the wall. “Odd. Very odd.” Then he moved off to other wonders, his huge hands reverently caressing the metallic counters, the hanging shelves. His expression was so rapt that Lessa suppressed a giggle. “Simply amazing. I believe that this countertop was extruded in a single sheet.” He clucked to himself. “If it has been done, it can be done. I must think about it.”
F’lar was more interested in the scribble-design. There was something tantalizingly familiar about it.
“Lessa, I’d swear I’ve seen just such a nonsense before.”
“But we’ve never been here. No one has.”
“I’ve got it. It’s like the pattern on that metal plate F’nor found at Fort Weyr. The one that mentioned fire lizards. See, this word,” his finger traced lines that would read “eureka” to older eyes, “is the same. I’d swear it. And it was obviously added after the rest of this picture.”
“If you want to call it a picture,” Lessa said dubiously. “But I do think you’re right. Only why would they circle this part of the ladder—and that one over there—with a scribble?”
“There are so many, many puzzles in this room,” Fandarel intoned. He’d opened a cabinet door, struggling briefly with the magnetic catch, then opened and closed it several times, smiling absently in delight for such efficiency. Only then did he notice the strange object on the deep shelf.
He exhaled in wonder as he took the ungainly affair down. “Have a care. It may waddle away,” Robinton said, grinning at the Smith’s performance.
Though the device was as long as a man’s arm, the Smith’s great hands seemed to envelop it as his fingers explored its exterior. “And they could roll metal without seam. Hmmm. It’s coated,” and he glanced up at F’lar, “with the same substance used in the big kettles. Coated for protection? With what?” He looked at it, peered at the top. “Ah, glass. Fine glass. Something to look through?” He fiddled with the easily swiveled coated glass that was fitted under a small ledge at the base of the instrument He placed his eye at the opening on the top of the tube. “Nothing to see but through.” He straightened, his brows deeply furrowed. A rumbling sound issued from him as if the gears of his thinking were shifting audibly. “There is a very badly eroded diagram which Wansor showed me not long ago. A device,” and his fingers rested lightly on the wheels placed alongside the barrel, “which magnifies objects hundreds of times their proper size. But it takes so long to make lenses, polish mirrors. Hmmm.” He bent again and with extremely careful fingers played with the knobs at the side of the tube. He glanced quickly at the mirror, wiped it with one stained finger and looked at it once with his own eye, then again through the tube. “Fascinating. I can see every imperfection in the glass.” He was completely unconscious of the fact that everyone else was watching him, fascinated by his behavior. He pulled a coarse short hair from his bead and held it under the end of the barrel, above the mirror, right across a small aperture. Another careful adjustment and he gave a bellow of joy. “Look. Look. It is only my hair. But look at the size of it now. See dust like stones, see the scales, see the broken end.”
Exuberantly, he pulled Lessa into position, all but holding her head down to the eyepiece. “If you can’t see clearly, move this knob until you can.”
Lessa complied, but with a startled exclamation, jumped back. Robinton stepped up before F’lar could.
“But that’s fantastic,” the Harper muttered, playing with the knobs and quickly taking a comparative look at the actual hair.
“May I?” asked F’lar so pointedly that Robinton grinned an apology for his monopoly.
Taking his place, F’lar in turn had to check the specimen to believe in what he saw through the instrument. The strand of hair became a coarse rope, motes of dust sparkling in the light along it, fine lines making visible segmentation points.
When he lifted his head, he turned toward Fandarel, speaking softly because he almost dared not utter this fragile hope aloud.
“If there are ways of making tiny things this large, are there ways of bringing distant objects near enough to observe closely?”
He heard Lessa’s breath catch, was aware that Robinton was holding his, but F’lar begged the Smith with his eyes to give him the answer he wanted to hear.
“I believe there ought to be,” Fandarel said after what seemed to be hours of reflection.
“F’lar?”
He looked down at Lessa’s white face, her startled eyes black with awe and fear, her hands half-raised in frightened protest.
“You can’t go to the Red Star!” Her voice was barely audible.
He captured her hands, cold and tense, and though he drew her to him reassuringly, he spoke more to the others.
“Our problem, gentlemen, has always been to get rid of Thread. Why not at its source? A dragon can go anywhere if he’s got a picture of where he’s going!”
When Jaxom woke, he was instantly aware that he was not in the Hold. He opened his eyes bravely, scared though he was, expecting darkness. Instead, above him was a curving roof of stone, its expanse sparkling from the full basket of glows in its center. He gave an inarticulate gasp of relief.
“Are you all right, lad? Does your chest hurt?” Manora was bending over him.
“You found us? Is Felessan all right?”
“Right as rain, and eating his dinner. Now, does your chest hurt?”
“My chest?” His heart seemed to stop when he remembered how he got that injury. But Manora was watching him. He felt cautiously. “No, thank-you-for-inquiring.”
His stomach further embarrassed him with its grinding noises.
“I think you need some dinner, too.”
“Then Lytol’s not angry with me? Or the Weyrleader?” he dared to ask.
Manora gave him a fond smile, smoothing down his tousled hair.
“Not to worry, Lord Jaxom,” she said kindly. “A stern word or two perhaps. Lord Lytol was beside himself with worry.”
Jaxom had the most incredible vision of two Lytols side by side, cheeks a-twitch in unison.
“However, I wouldn’t advise any more unauthorized expeditions anywhere.” She gave a little laugh. “That is now the special pastime of the adults.”
Jaxom was too busy worrying if she knew about the slit, if she knew the weyrboys had been peeking through. If she knew he had. He endured a little death, waiting to hear her say Felessan had confessed to their crime, then realized she had said they weren’t to be more than scolded. You could always trust Manora. And if she knew and wasn’t angry . . . But if she didn’t know and he asked,
she might be angry . . .
“You found those rooms, Lord Jaxom. I’d rest on my honors, now, were I you.”
“Rooms?”
She smiled at him and held out her hand. “I thought you were hungry.”
Her hand was cool and soft as she led him onto the balcony which circled the sleeping level. It must be late, Jaxom thought, as they passed the tightly drawn curtains of the sleeping rooms. The central fire was banked. A few women were grouped by one of the worktables, sewing. They glanced up as Manora and Jaxom passed, and smiled.
“You said ‘rooms’?” Jaxom asked with polite insistence.
“Beyond the room you opened were two others and the ruins of a stairway leading up.”
Jaxom whistled. “What was in the rooms?”
Manora laughed softly. “I never saw the Mastersmith so excited. They found some odd-shaped instruments and bits and pieces of glass I can’t make out at all.”
“An Oldtimer room?” Jaxom was awed at the scope of his discovery. And he’d had only the shortest look.
“Oldtimers?” Manora’s frown was so slight that Jaxom decided he’d imagined it. Manora never frowned. “Ancient timers, I’d say.”
As they entered the Main Cavern, Jaxom realized that their passage interrupted the lively conversations of the dragonmen and women seated around the big dining area. Accustomed as he was to such scrutiny, Jaxom straightened his shoulders and walked with measured stride. He turned his head slowly, giving a grave nod and smile to the riders he knew and those of the women he recognized. He ignored a sprinkle of laughter, being used to that, too, but a Lord of the Hold must act with the dignity appropriate to his rank, even if he were not quite Turned twelve and in the presence of his superiors.
It was full dark, but around the great inner face of the Bowl, he could see the lambent circles of dragon eyes on the weyr ledges. He could hear the muted rush of air as several stirred and stretched their enormous pinions. He looked up toward the Star Rocks, black knobs against the lighter sky, and saw the giant silhouette of the watch dragon. Far down the Bowl, he could even hear the restless tramping of the penned herdbeasts. In the lake in the center, the stars were mirrored.
Quickening his step now, he urged Manora faster. Dignity could be forgotten in the darkness and he was desperately hungry.
Mnementh gave a welcoming rumble on the queen’s weyr ledge, and Jaxom, greatly daring, glanced up at the near eye which closed one lid at him slightly in startling imitation of a human wink.
Do dragons have a sense of humor? he wondered. The watch-wher certainly didn’t and he was the same breed.
The relationship is very distant.
“I beg your pardon?” Jaxom said, startled, glancing up at Manora.
“For what, young Lord?”
“Didn’t you say something?”
“No”
Jaxom glanced back at the bulky shadow of the dragon, but Mnementh’s head was turned. Then he could smell roasted meats and walked faster.
As they rounded the bend, Jaxom saw the golden body of the recumbent queen and was suddenly guilt-struck and fearful. But she was fast asleep, smiling with an innocent serenity remarkably like his foster mother’s newest babe. He looked away lest his gaze rouse her, and saw the faces of all those adults at the table. It was almost too much for him. F’lar, Lessa, Lytol and Felessan he’d expected, but there was the Mastersmith and the Masterharper, too.
Only drill helped him respond courteously to the greetings of the celebrities. He wasn’t aware when Manora and Lessa came to his assistance.
“Not a word until the child has had something to eat, Lytol,” the Weyrwoman said firmly, her hands pressing him gently to the empty seat beside Felessan. The boy paused between spoonfuls to look up with a complex series of facial contortions supposed to convey a message that escaped Jaxom. “Jaxom missed lunch at the Hold and is several hours hungrier in consequence. He is well, Manora?”
“He took no more harm than Felessan.”
“He looked a little glassy-eyed as you crossed the weyr.” Lessa bent to peer at Jaxom who politely looked at her, chewing with sudden self-consciousness. “How do you feel?”
Jaxom emptied his mouth hurriedly, trying to swallow a half-chewed lump of vegetable. Felessan tendered a cup of water and Lessa deftly swatted him between the shoulder blades as he started to choke.
“I feel fine,” he managed to say. “I feel fine, thank you.” He waited, unable to resist looking at his plate and was relieved when the Weyrleader laughingly reminded Lessa that she was the one who said the boy should eat before anything else.
The Mastersmith tapped his stained, branchlike finger on the faded Record skin which draped the table, except where the boys were sitting. Fandarel had one arm wrapped possessively around something in his lap, but Jaxom couldn’t see what it was.
“If I judge this accurately, there should be several levels of rooms in this section, both beyond the one the boys found and above.”
Jaxom goggled at the map and caught Felessan’s eye. He was excited, too, but he kept on eating. Jaxom spooned up another huge mouthful—it tasted so good—but he did wish that the skin were not upside down to him.
“I’d swear there were no upper weyr entrances on that side of the Bowl,” F’lar muttered, shaking his head.
“There was access to the Bowl on the ground level,” Fandarel said, his forefinger covering what he ought to be showing. “We found it, sealed up. Possibly because of that rockfall.”
Jaxom looked anxiously at Felessan who became engrossed in his plate. When Felessan made those faces, had he meant he hadn’t told them? Or he had? Jaxom wished he knew.
“That seam was barely discernible,” the Masterharper said. “The sealing substance was more effective than any mortar I’ve ever seen; transparent, smooth and strong.”
“One could not chip it,” rumbled Fandarel, shaking his head.
“Why would they seal off an exit to the Bowl?” Lessa asked.
“Because they weren’t using that section of the Weyr,” F’lar suggested. “Certainly no one has used those corridors for the Egg knows how many Turns. There weren’t even footprints in the dust of most of them we searched.”
Waiting for the adult wrath that must surely descend on him now, Jaxom kept his eyes on his plate. He couldn’t bear Lessa’s recriminations. He dreaded the look in Lytol’s eyes when he learned of his ward’s blasphemous act. How could he have been so deaf to all Lytol’s patient teachings?
“We found enough of interest in the dusty, moldy old Records that had been ignored as useless,” F’lar’s voice went on.
Jaxom hazarded a glance and saw the Weyrleader tousle Felessan’s hair; watched as the man actually grinned at him, Jaxom. Jaxom was almost sick with relief. None of the adults knew what he and Felessan had done in the Hatching Grounds.
“These boys have already led us to exquisite treasures, eh, Fandarel?”
“Let us hope they are not the only legacies left in forgotten rooms,” the Mastersmith said in his deep rumble of a voice. Absently he stroked the smooth metal of the magnifying device cradled in the crook of his arm.
CHAPTER VI
Midmorning at Southern Weyr
Early Morning at Nabol Hold: Next Day
Hot, sandy and sticky with sweat and salt, triumph overrode all minor irritations as Kylara stared down at the clutch she had unearthed.
“They can have their seven,” she muttered, staring in the general direction of northeast and the Weyr. “I’ve got an entire nest. And another gold,”
Exultations welled out of her in a raucous laugh. Just wait until Meron of Nabol saw these beauties! There was no doubt in her mind that the Holder hated dragonmen because he envied them their beasts. He’d often carped that Impressions ought not to be monopolized by one inbred sodality. Well, let’s see if mighty Meron could Impress a fire lizard. She wasn’t sure which would please her more: if he could or if he couldn’t. Either way’d work for her. But if he could
Impress a fire lizard, a bronze, say, and she had a queen on her wrist, and the two mated . . . It might not be as spectacular as with the larger beasts, but then, given Meron’s natural endowment . . . Kylara smiled in sensuous anticipation.
“You’d better be worth this,” she told the eggs.
She put the thirty-four hardened eggs into several thicknesses of the firestone bagging she’d brought along. She wrapped that bundle in wherhides and then in her thick wool cloak. She’d been Weyrwoman long enough to realize that a suddenly cooled egg would never hatch. And these were mighty close to cracking shell.
So much the better.
Prideth had been tolerant of her rider’s preoccupation with fire-lizard eggs. She had obediently landed in a hundred coves along the western coast, waiting, not unhappily in the hot sun, while Kylara quartered the burning sands, looking for any trace of fire-lizard buryings. But Prideth grumbled anxiously when Kylara gave her the coordinates for Nabol Hold, not Southern Weyr.
It was just first light, Nabol time, when Kylara’s arrival sent the watch-wher screaming into its lair. The watchguard knew the Southern Weyrwoman too well to protest her entry and some poor wit was dispatched to wake his Lord. Kylara blithely disregarded Meron’s angry frown when he appeared on the stairs of the Inner Hold.
“I’ve fire-lizard eggs for you, Lord Meron of Nabol,” she cried, gesturing to the lumpy bundle she’d had a man bring in. “I want tubs of warm sand or we’ll lose them.”
“Tubs of warm sand?” Meron repeated with overt irritation.
So, he’d someone else in his bed, had he? Kylara thought, of half a mind to take her treasure and disappear.
“Yes, you fool. I’ve a clutch of fire-lizard eggs about to hatch. The chance of your lifetime. You there,” and Kylara pointed imperiously at Meron’s holdkeeper who’d come shuffling in, half-dressed. “Pour boiling water over all the cleansing sand you’ve got and bring it here instantly.”
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 41