Ramoth dipped her wings suddenly and disappeared from sight. Mnementh followed. A cold instant later they were wheeling above Telgar’s chain of brilliant stair lakes, startlingly blue in the early morning sun. Ramoth was gliding downward, framed briefly against the water, sunlight unnecessarily gilding her bright body.
She’s almost twice the size of any other queen, F’lar thought with a surge of admiration for the magnificent dragon.
A good rider makes a good beast, Mnementh remarked voluntarily.
Ramoth coyly swooped into a high banking turn before matching her speed with her Weyrmate’s. The two flew, wingtip to wingtip, up the lake valleys to the Smithcrafthall. Behind them the terrain dropped slowly seaward, the river which was fed by the lakes running through wide farm and pasturelands, converging with the Great Dunto River which finally emptied into the sea..
As they landed before the Crafthall, Terry came running out of one of the smaller buildings set back in a grove of stunted fellis trees. He urgently waved them his way. The Craft was getting an early start today, sounds of industry issued from every building. Their riders aground, the dragons said they were going to swim, and took off again. As F’lar joined Lessa, she was grinning, her gray eyes dancing.
“Swimming, indeed!” was her comment and she caught her arm around his waist.
“So I must suffer uncomforted?” But he put an arm around her shoulders and matched his long stride to hers as they crossed the distance to Terry.
“You are indeed well come,” Terry said, Bowing continuously and grinning from ear to ear.
“Fandarel’s already developed a long-distance glass?” asked F’lar.
“Not quite yet,” and the Craft-second’s merry eyes danced in his tired face, “but not for want of trying all night.”
Lessa laughed sympathetically but Terry quickly demurred.
“I don’t mind, really. It’s fascinating what the fine-viewer can make visible. Wansor is jubilant and depressed by turns. He’s been raving all night to the point of tears for his own inadequacy.”
They were almost at the door of the small hall when Terry turned, his face solemn.
“I wanted to tell you how terribly I feel about F’nor. If I’d only given them that rackety knife in the first place, but it had been commissioned as a wedding gift for Lord Asgenar from Lord Larad and I simply . . .”
“You had every right to prevent its appropriation,” F’lar replied, gripping the Craft-second’s shoulder for emphasis.
“Still, if I had relinquished it . . .”
“If the skies fell, we’d not be bothered by Thread,” Lessa said so tartly that Terry was obliged to desist from his apologies.
The Hall, though apparently two-storied to judge by the windows, was in fact a vast single room. There was a small forge at one of the two hearths that were centered in each end. The black stone walls, smoothed and apparently seamless, were covered with diagrams and numbers. A long table dominated the center of the room, its wide ends deep sand trays, the rest a conglomerate of Record skins, leaves of paper and a variety of bizarre equipment. The Smith was standing to one side of the door, spread-legged, fists jammed against the wide waist belt, chin jutting out, a deep frown scoring his brow. His bellicose mood was directed toward a sketch on the black stone before him.
“It must be a question of the visual angle, Wansor,” he muttered in an aggrieved tone, as if the sketch were defying his will. “Wansor?”
“Wansor is as good as between, Craftmaster,” Terry said gently, gesturing toward the sleeping body all but invisible under skins on the outsized couch in one corner.
F’lar had always wondered where Fandarel slept, since the main Hall had long ago been given over to working space. No ordinary craftcot would be spacious enough to house the Craftmaster. Now he remembered seeing couches like this in most of the major buildings. Undoubtedly Fandarel slept anywhere and anytime he could no longer stay awake. The Smith thrived on what could burn out another man.
The Smith glanced crossly at the sleeper, grunted with resignation and only then noticed Lessa and F’lar. He smiled down at the Weyrwoman with real pleasure.
“You come early, and I’d hoped to have some progress to report on a distance-viewer,” he said, gesturing toward the sketch. Lessa and F’lar obediently inspected the series of lines and ovals, innocently white on the black wall. “It is regrettable that the construction of perfect equipment is dependent on the frailty of men’s minds and bodies. I apologize . . .”
“Why? It is barely morning,” F’lar replied with a droll expression. “I will give you until nightfall before I accuse you of inefficiency.”
Terry tried to smother a laugh; what came out was a slightly hysterical giggle.
They were all somewhat startled to hear the booming gargle that was Fandarel’s laugh. He nearly knocked F’lar down with a jovial slap on the shoulder blades as he whooped with mirth.
“You give me . . . until nightfall . . . before . . . inefficiency . . .” the Smith gasped between howls.
“The man’s gone mad. We’ve put too much of a strain on him,” F’lar told the others.
“Nonsense,” Lessa replied, looking at the convulsed Smith with small sympathy. “He hasn’t slept and if I know his single-mindedness, he hasn’t eaten. Has he, Terry?”
Terry plainly had to search his mind for an answer.
“Rouse your cooks, then. Even he,” and Lessa jerked her thumb at the exasperating Smith, “ought to stoke that hulk of his with food once a week.”
Her insinuation that the Smith was a dragon was not lost on Terry who this time began to laugh uncontrollably.
“I’ll rouse them myself. You’re all next to useless, you men,” she complained and started for the door.
Terry intercepted her, masterfully suppressing his laughter, and reached for a button in the base of a square box on the wall. In a loud voice be bespoke a meal for the Smith and four others.
“What’s that?” F’lar asked, fascinated. It didn’t look capable of sending a message all the way to Telgar.
“Oh, a loudspeaker. Very efficient,” Terry said with a wry grin, “if you can’t bellow like the Craftmaster. We have them in every hall. Saves a lot of running around.”
“One day I will fix it so that we can channel the message to the one area we want to speak to.” The Smith added, wiping his eyes, “Ah, but a man can sleep anytime. A laugh restores the soul.”
“Is that the distance-writer you’re going to demonstrate for us?” asked the Weyrleader, frankly skeptical.
“No, no, no,” Fandarel reassured him, dismissing the accomplishment almost irritably and striding to a complex arrangement of wires and ceramic pots. “This is my distance-writer!”
It was difficult for Lessa and F’lar to see anything to be proud of in that mystifying jumble.
“The wallbox looks more efficient,” F’lar said at length, bending to test the mixture in a pot with a finger.
The Smith struck his hand away.
“That would burn your skin as quick as pure agenothree,” he exclaimed. “Based on that solution, too. Now, observe. These tubs contain blocks of metal, one each of zinc and copper, in a watered solution of sulfuric acid which makes the metal dissolve in such a way that a chemical reaction occurs. This gives us a form of activity I have called chemical reaction energy. The c.r. produced can be controlled at this point,” and he ran a finger down the metal arm which was poised over an expanse of thin grayish material, attached at both ends to rollers. The Smith turned a knob. The pots began to bubble gently. He tapped the arm and a series of red marks of different lengths began to appear on the material which wound slowly forward. “See, this is a message. The Harper adapted and expanded his drum code, a different sequence and length of lines for every sound. A little practice and you can read them as easily as written words.”
“I do not see the advantage of writing a message here,” and F’lar pointed to the roll, “when you say . . .”
The Smith beamed expansively. “Ah, but as I write with this needle, another needle at the Masterminer’s in Crom or at the Crafthall at Igen repeats the line simultaneously.”
“That would be faster than dragon flight,” Lessa whispered, awed. “What do these lines say? Where did they go?” She inadvertently touched the material with her finger, snatching it back for a quick examination. There was no mark on her finger but a blotch of red appeared on the paper.
The Smith chuckled raspingly.
“No harm in that stuff. It merely reacts to the acidity of your skin.”
F’lar laughed. “Proof of your disposition, my dear!”
“Put your finger there and see what occurs,” Lessa ordered with a flash of her eyes.
“It would be the same,” the Smith remarked didactically. “The roll is made of a natural substance, litmus, found in Igen, Keroon and Tillek. We have always used it to check the acidity of the earth or solutions. As the chemical reaction energy is acid, naturally the litmus changes color when the needle touches its surface, thus making the message for us to read.”
“Didn’t you say something about having to lay wire? Explain.”
The Smith lifted a coil of fine wire which was hooked into the contraption. It ran out the window to a stone post. Now F’lar and Lessa noticed that posts were laid in a line marching toward the distant mountains, and, one assumed, the Masterminer in Crom Hold.
“This connects the c.r. distance-writer here with the one at Crom. That other goes to Igen. I can send messages to either Crom or Igen, or both, by adjusting this dial.”
“To which did you send that?” Lessa asked, pointing to the lines.
“Neither, my lady, for the c.r. was not being broadcast. I had the dial set to receive messages, not send. It is very efficient, you see.”
At this point, two women, dressed in the heavy wherhide garb of smithcrafters, entered the room, laden with trays of steaming food. One was evidently solely for the Smith’s consumption, for the woman jerked her head at him as, she placed the heavy platter on a rest evidently designed to receive it and not disturb work in the sand tray beneath. She bobbed to Lessa as she crossed in front of her, gesturing peremptorily to her companion to wait as she cleared space on the table. She did this by sweeping things out of her way with complete disregard for what might be disarranged or broken. She gave the bared surface a cursory swipe with a towel, signaled the other to put the tray down, then the two of them swept out before Lessa, stunned by such perfunctory service, could utter a sound.
“I see you’ve got your women trained, Fandarel,” F’lar said mildly, catching and holding Lessa’s indignant eyes. “No talking, no fluttering, no importunate demands for attention.”
Terry chuckled as he freed one chair of its pile of abandoned clothing and gestured Lessa to sit. F’lar righted one overturned stool that would serve him while Terry hooked a foot round a second that had got kicked under the long table, seating himself with a fluid movement that proved he had long familiarity with such makeshift repasts.
Now that he had food before him, the Smith was eating with single-minded intensity.
“Then it is the wire-laying process that holds you up,” F’lar said, accepting the klah Lessa poured for him and Terry. “How long did it take you to extend it from here to Crom Hold, for instance?”
“We did not stick to the work,” Terry replied for his Craftmaster whose mouth was too full for speech. “The posts were set up first by apprentices from both halls and those Holders willing to take a few hours from their own tasks. It was difficult to find the proper wire, and it takes time to extrude perfect lengths.”
“Did you speak to Lord Larad? Wouldn’t he volunteer men?”
Terry made a face. “Lord Holder Larad is more interested in how many flame throwers we can make him, or how many crops he can plant for food.”
Lessa had taken a sip of the klah and barely managed to swallow the acid stuff. The bread was lumpy and half-baked, the sausage within composed of huge, inedible chunks, yet both Terry and Fandarel ate with great appetite. Indifferent service was one matter; but decent food quite another.
“If this is the food he barters you for flame throwers, I’d refuse,” she exclaimed. “Why, even the fruit is rotten.”
“Lessa!”
“I wonder you can achieve as much as you do if you have to survive on this,” she went on, ignoring F’lar’s reprimand. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“Lessa,” F’lar repeated, more urgently.
“No wife,” the Smith mumbled, but the rest of his sentence came out more as breadcrumbs than words and he was reduced to shaking his head from side to side.
“Well, even a headwoman ought to be able to manage better than this.”
Terry cleared his mouth enough to explain. “Our headwoman is a good enough cook but she’s so much better at bringing up faded ink on the skins we’ve been studying that she’s been doing that instead.”
“Surely one of the other wives . . .”
Terry made a grimace. “We’ve been so pressed for help, with all these additional projects,” and he waved at the distance-writer, “that anyone who can has turned crafter—” He broke off, seeing the consternation on Lessa’s face.
“Well, I’ve women sitting around the Lower Cavern doing make-work. I’ll have Kenalas and those two cronies of hers here to help as soon as a green can bring ’em. And,” Lessa added emphatically, pointing a stern finger at the Smith, “they’ll have strict orders to do nothing in the craft, no matter what!”
Terry looked frankly relieved and pushed aside the meatroll he had been gobbling down, as if he had only now discovered how it revolted him.
“In the meantime,” Lessa went on with an indignation that was ludicrous to F’lar. He knew who managed Benden Weyr’s domestic affairs. “I’m making a decent brew of klah. How you could have choked down such bitter dregs as this is beyond my comprehension!” She swept out the door, pot in hand, her angry monologue drifting back to amused listeners.
“Well, she’s right,” F’lar said, laughing. “This is worse than the worst the Weyr ever got.”
“To tell the truth, I never really noticed before,” Terry replied, staring at his plate quizzically.
“That’s obvious.”
“It keeps me going,” the Smith said placidly, swallowing a half-cup of klah to clear his mouth.
“Seriously, are you that short of men that you have to draft your women, too?”
“Not short of men, exactly, but of people who have the dexterity, the interest some of our projects require,” Terry spoke up, in quick defense of his Craftmaster.
“I mean no criticism, Master Terry,” F’lar said, hastily.
“We’ve done a good deal of reviewing of the old Records, too,” Terry went on, a little defensively still. He flipped the pile of skins that had been spilled down the center of the table. “We’ve got answers to problems we didn’t know existed and haven’t encountered yet.”
“And no answers to the troubles which beset us,” Fandarel added, gesturing skyward with his thumb.
“We’ve had to take time to copy these Records,” Terry continued solemnly, “because they are all but illegible now . . .”
“I contend that we lost more than was saved and useful. Some skins were worn out with handling and their message obliterated.”
The two smiths seemed to be exchanging portions of a well-rehearsed complaint.
“Did it never occur to you to ask the Masterharper for help in transcribing your Records?” asked F’lar.
Fandarel and Terry exchanged startled glances.
“I can see it didn’t. It’s not the Weyrs alone who are autonomous. Don’t you Craftmasters speak to each other?” F’lar’s grin was echoed by the big Smith, recalling Robinton’s words of the previous evening. “However, the Harperhall is usually overflowing with apprentices, set to copying whatever Robinton can find for them. They could as well take that burden from you.”
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“Aye, that would be a great help,” Terry agreed, seeing that the Smith did not object.
“You sound doubtful—or hesitant? Are any Crafts secret?”
“Oh, no. Neither the Craftmaster nor I hold with cabalistic, inviolable sanctities, passed at deathbed from father to son . . .”
The Smith snorted with such powerful scorn that a skin on the top of the pile slithered to the floor. “No sons!”
“That’s all very well when one can count on dying in bed and at a given time, but I—and the Craftmaster—would like to see all knowledge available to all who need it,” Terry said.
F’lar gazed with increased respect at the stoop-shouldered Craft-second. He’d known that Fandarel relied heavily on Terry’s executive ability and tactfulness. The man could always be counted on to fill in the gaps in Fandarel’s terse explanations or instructions, but it was obvious now that Terry had a mind of his own, whether it concurred with his Craftmaster’s or not.
“Knowledge has less danger of being lost, then,” Terry went on less passionately but just as fervently. “We knew so much more once. And all we have are tantalizing bits and fragments that do almost more harm than good because they only get in the way of independent development.”
“We will contrive,” Fandarel said, his ineffable optimism complementing Terry’s volatility.
“Do you have men enough, and wire enough, to install one of those things at Telgar Hold in two days?” asked F’lar, feeling a change of subject might help.
“We could take men off flame throwers and hardware. And I can call in the apprentices from the Smithhalls at Igen, Telgar and Lemos,” the Smith said and then glanced slyly at F’lar. “They’d come faster dragonback!”
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 43