“You can’t be sure of that,” Sangel protested.
“And there’ll be a way of distinguishing land from water, too,” Oterel went on, ignoring the Boll Lord. “Let me have another look, there, Nessel,” he said, pushing the Crom Lord out of the way.
“Now, wait a minute there, Tillek.” And Nessel put a proprietary hand on the instrument. As Tillek jostled him, the tripod tottered and the distance-viewer, on its hastily rigged swivel, assumed a new direction.
“Now you’ve done it,” Oterel cried. “I only wanted to see if you could distinguish the land from the water.”
Wansor tried to get between the two Lords so that he could adjust his precious instrument.
“I didn’t get my full turn,” Nessel complained, trying to keep physical possession of the distance-viewer.
“You’ll not see anything, Lord Nessel, if Wansor cannot have a chance to sight back on the Star,” Fandarel said, politely gesturing the Crom Lord out of the way.
“You’re a damned wherry fool, Nessel,” Lord Groghe said, pulling him to one side and waving Wansor in.
“Tillek’s the fool.”
“I saw enough to know there’s not as much dark as there is that gray,” Oterel said, defensively. “Pern’s more water than land. So’s the Red Star.”
“From one look you can tell so much, Oterel?” Meron’s malicious drawl from the shadows distracted everyone.
Lessa moved pointedly aside as he strolled forward, stroking his bronze lizard possessively. It affronted Lessa that the little creature was humming with pleasure.
“It will take many observations, by many eyes,” Fandarel said in his bass rumble, “before we will be able to say what the Red Star looks like with any certitude. One point of similarity is not enough. Not at all.”
“Oh, indeed. Indeed.” Wansor seconded his Craftmaster, his eyes glued to the piece as he slowly swung it across the night sky.
“What’s taking you so long?” Nessel of Crom demanded irritably. “There’s the Star. We can all see it with our naked eyes.”
“And it is so easy to pick out the green pebble you drop on the sands of Igen at high noon?” asked Robinton.
“Ah. I’ve got it,” Wansor cried. Nessel jumped forward, reaching for the tube. He jerked his hand back, remembering what an unwise movement could do. With both hands conspicuously behind him, he looked again at the Red Star.
Nessel, however, did not remain long at the distance-viewer. When Oterel stepped forward, the Masterharper moved quicker.
“My turn now, I believe, since all the Lord Holders have had one sighting.”
“Only fair,” Sangel said loudly, glaring at Oterel.
Lessa watched the Masterharper closely, saw the tightening of his broad shoulders as he, too, felt the impact of that first sight of their ancient enemy. He did not remain long, or perhaps she was deceived, but he straightened slowly from the eyepiece and looked thoughtfully toward the Red Star in the dark heavens above them.
“Well, Harper?” asked Meron superciliously. “You’ve a glib word for every occasion.”
Robinton regarded the Nabolese for a longer moment than he had the Star.
“I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us.”
“Ha! I thought as much.” Meron was grinning with odious triumph.
“I wasn’t aware you thought,” Robinton remarked quietly.
“What do you mean, Meron?” Lessa asked in a dangerously edged voice, “you thought as much?”
“Why, it should be obvious,” and the Lord of Nabol had not tempered his attitude toward her much since his first insult. “The Harper does as Benden Weyr decrees. And since Benden Weyr does not care to exterminate Thread at source . . .”
“And how do you know that?” Lessa demanded coldly.
“And, Lord Nabol, on what grounds do you base your allegation that the Harper of Pern does as Benden Weyr decrees? For I most urgently suggest that you either prove such an accusation instantly or retract it.” Robinton’s hand was on his belt knife.
The bronze lizard on Meron’s arm began to hiss and extend his fragile wings in alarm. The Lord of Nabol contented himself with a knowing smirk as he made a show of soothing his lizard.
“Speak up, Meron,” Oterel demanded.
“But it’s so obvious. Surely you can all see that,” Meron replied with malicious affability and a feigned surprise at the obtuseness of the others. “He has a hopeless passion for—the Benden Weyrwoman.”
For a moment Lessa could only stare at the man in a stunned daze. It was true that she admired and respected Robinton. She was fond of him, she supposed. Always glad to see him and never bothering to disguise it but—Meron was mad. Trying to undermine the country’s faith in dragonmen with absurd, vicious rumors. First Kylara and now . . . And yet Kylara’s weakness, her promiscuity, the general attitude of the Hold and Craft toward the customs of the Weyrs made his accusation so plausible . . .
Robinton’s hearty guffaw startled her. And wiped the smile from Nabol’s face.
“Benden’s Weyrwoman has not half the attraction for me that Benden’s wine has!”
There was such intense relief in the faces around her that Lessa knew, in a sinking, sick way, that the Lord Holders had been halfway to believing Meron’s invidious accusation. If Robinton had not responded just as he had, if she had started to protest the accusation . . . She grinned, too, managed to chuckle because the Masterharper’s fondness for wine, for the Benden wines in particular, was such common knowledge, it was more plausible than Meron’s slander. Ridicule was a better defense than truth.
“Furthermore,” the Harper went on, “the Masterharper of Pern has no opinion, one way or another, about the Red Star—not even a verse. Because that—that—child’s miggsy scares him juiceless and makes him yearn for some of that Benden wine, right now, in limitless quantity.” Robinton had not the slightest trace of laughter in his voice now. “I’m too steeped in the history and lore of our beloved Pern, I’ve sung too many ballads about the evil of the Red Star to want to get any closer to it. Even that—” and he pointed to the distance-viewer, “brings it far too near me. But the men who have to fight Thread day after day, Turn after Turn, can look upon it with less fearfulness than the poor Harper. And, Meron, Lord Holder of Nabol, you can wager every field and cot and hall upon your lands that the dragonmen of every Weyr would like to be quit of any obligation to keep your hide Threadfree—even if it means wiping Thread from every squared length of that Star.” The vehemence in the Harper’s voice caused Meron to take a backward step, to clap a hand on the violently agitated fire lizard. “How can you, any of you,” and the Harper’s opprobrium fell equally now on the other four Lords, “doubt that the dragonriders wouldn’t be as relieved as you to see the end of their centuries of dedication to your safety. They don’t have to defend you from Thread. You, Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Oterel, you all ought to realize that by now. You’ve had T’kul to deal with, and T’ron.
“You all know what Thread does to a man. And you know what happens when a dragon dies. Or must I remind you of that, too? Do you honestly believe that the dragonriders wish to prolong such conditions, such occurrences? What do they get out of it? Not much! Not much! Are the scores they suffer worth a few bags of grain, or a blade from the Smith’s? Is a dragon’s death truly recompensed by a length of goods or a scrawny herdbeast?
“And if there have been instruments for man with his puny eyes to view that bauble in the sky, why do we still have Thread? If it’s just a question of finding coordinates and taking that jump? Could it be that it has been tried by dragonriders before? And they failed because those gray masses we see so clearly are not water, or land, but uncountable Threads, seething and writhing, until the topmost can, by some mysterious agency, win free to plague us? Could it be because, although there are clouds, they do not consist of water vapor as Pern’s clouds, but something deadly, far more inimical to us than Thread? How do we know we will not find the bones of l
ong-lost dragons and riders in the dark blots of the planet? There is so much we do not know that, yes, I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us. But I think the time for wisdom is now past and we must rely on the folly of the brave and hope that it will suffice them and us. For I do believe,” and the Harper turned slowly toward Lessa, “though my heart is heavy and I am scared soulless, that the dragonmen of Pern will go to the Red Star.”
“That is F’lar’s intention,” Lessa said in a strong, ringing voice, her head high, her shoulders straight. Unlike the Harper, she could not admit her fear, even to herself.
“Aye,” rumbled Fandarel, nodding his great head slowly up and down, “for he has enjoined me and Wansor to make many observations on the Red Star so that an expedition can be sent as soon as possible.”
“And how long must we wait until this expedition takes place?” Meron asked, as if the Harper’s words had never been spoken.
“Come now, man, how can you expect anyone to give a date—a time?” asked Groghe.
“Ah, but Benden Weyr is so adept at giving times and dates and patterns, is it not?” Meron replied so unctuously that Lessa wanted to scratch his face.
“And they saved your profit, Nabol,” Oterel put in.
“Have you any idea, Weyrwoman?” Sangel asked Lessa in an anxious tone.
“I must complete the observations,” Wansor put in, nervously dithering. “It would be folly—madness—until we have seen the entire Red Star, and plot in the distinctive features of the various color masses. See how often the clouds cover it. Oh, there is much preliminary investigation to be done. And then, some kind of protective . . .”
“I see,” Meron broke in.
Would the man never cease smiling? And yet, Lessa thought, his irony might work in their favor.
“It could be a lifelong project,” he went on.
“Not if I know F’lar,” the Harper said dryly. “I’ve recently entertained the notion that Benden’s Weyrleader takes these latest vagaries of ancient scourge as a personal insult, since we had rather thought we’d got them neatly slotted in time and place.”
There was such good-humored raillery in the Harper’s tone that Oterel of Tillek gave a snort. Lord Groghe looked more thoughtful, probably not quite recovered from F’lar’s rebuttal the other day.
“An insult to Benden?” asked Sangel, baffled. “But his timetables were accurate for Turns. Used them myself and never found them wrong until just recently.”
Meron stamped his foot, his affected pose gone.
“You’re all fools. Letting the Harper sweet-talk you into complacency. We’ll never see the end of Thread. Not in his lifetime or ours. And we’ll be paying tithes to shiftless Weyrs, deferring to dragonriders and their women as long as this planet circles the sun. And there’s not one of you great Lords, not one, with the courage to force this issue. We don’t need dragonriders. We don’t need ’em. We’ve fire lizards which eat Thread . . .”
“Then shall I inform T’bor of the High Reaches Weyr that his wings need no longer patrol Nabol? I’m certain he would be relieved,” Lessa asked in her lightest, sweetest voice.
The Nabolese Lord gave her a look of pure hatred. The fire lizard gathered itself into a hissing launch position. A single clear note from Ramoth all but deafened those on the heights. The fire lizard disappeared with a shriek. Strangling on his curses, Meson stamped down the lighted path to the landing, calling harshly for his dragon. The green appeared with such alacrity that Lessa was certain Ramoth had summoned him, even as she had warned the little lizard against attacking Lessa.
“You wouldn’t order T’bor to stop patrolling Nabol, would you, Weyrwoman?” asked Nessel, Lord of Crom. “After all, my lands march with his . . .”
“Lord Nessel,” Lessa began, intending to reassure him that she had no such authority in the first place and in the second . . . “Lord Nessel,” she repeated instead, smiling at him, “you notice that the Lord of Nabol did not request it, after all. Though,” and the sighed with dramatic dedication. “we have been sorely tempted to penalize him for his part in the death of the two dragon queens.” She gave Nessel a wan, brave smile. “But there are hundreds of innocent people on his lands, and many more about him, who cannot be permitted to suffer because of his—his—how shall I phrase it—his turn behavior.”
“Which leads me to ask,” Groghe said, hastily clearing his throat. “what is being done with that—that Kylara woman?”
“Nothing,” Lessa said in a flat hard voice, trusting that would end the matter.
“Nothing?” Groghe was incensed. “She caused the death of two queens and you’re doing nothing . . .”
“Are the Lord Holders doing anything about Meson?” she asked, glancing sternly at the four present. There was a long silence. “I must return to Benden Weyr. The dawn and another day’s watch come all too soon there. We’re keeping Wansor Fandarel from the observations that will make it possible for us to go to that Star.”
“Before they monopolize the thing, I’d like another look,” Oterel of Tillek said loudly. “My eyes are keen . . .”
Lessa was tired as she called Ramoth to her. She wanted go back to Benden Weyr, not so much to sleep as to Benden herself about F’lar. Mnementh was with him, true, and he’d have reported any change in his rider’s condition . . .
And I’d’ve told you Ramoth said, sounding a little
“Lessa,” the Harper’s low voice reached her, “are you in favor of that expedition?”
She looked up at him, his face lighted by the path glows. His expression was neutral and she wondered if he’d really meant what he’d said back at the Star Rocks. He disabled so easily, and so often against his own inclination, that she sometimes wondered what his candid thoughts were.
“It scares me. It scares me because it seems so likely that must someone must have tried. Sometime. It just doesn’t seem logical . . .”
“Is there any record that anyone, besides yourself, ever jumped so far between times?”
“No.” She had to admit it. “Not so far. But then, there hadn’t been such need.”
“And there’s no need now to take this other kind of a jump?”
“Don’t unsettle me more.” Lessa was unsure of what she felt or thought, or what anyone felt or thought, should or shouldn’t do. Then she saw the kind, worried expression of the Harper’s eyes and impulsively gripped his arm. “How can we know? How can we be sure?”
“How were you sure that the Question Song could be answered—by you?”
“And you’ve a new Question Song for me?”
“Questions, yes.” He gave her a smile as he covered her hand gently with his own. “Answer?” He shook his head and then stepped back as Ramoth alighted.
But his questions were as difficult to forget as the Question Song which had led her between time. When she returned to Benden, she found that F’lar’s skin was hot to the touch; he slept restlessly. So much so that, although Lessa willed herself to sleep beside him on the wide couch, she couldn’t succeed. Desperate for some surcease from her fears—for F’lar, of the intangible unknown ahead—she crept from their couch and into the weyr. Ramoth roused sleepily and arranged her front legs in a cradle. Lulled by the warm, musty comfort of her dragon, Lessa finally did sleep.
By the morning, F’lar was no better, querulous with his fever and worried about her report on the viewing.
“I can’t imagine what you expected me to see,” she said with some exasperation after she had patiently described for the fourth time what she had seen through the distance-viewer.
“I expected,” and he paused significantly, “to find some—some characteristic for which the dragons could fly between.” He plucked at the bed fur, then pulled the recalcitrant forelock back from his eyes. “We have got to keep that promise to the Lord Holders.”
“Why? To prove Meron wrong?”
“No. To prove it is or is not possible to get rid of Thread permanently.” He scowled at her a
s if she should have known the answer.
“I think someone else must have tried to discover that before,” she said wearily. “And we still have Thread.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he countered in such a savage tone that he began to cough, an exercise which painfully contracted the injured muscles across his waist.
Instantly Lessa was at his side, offering him distilled wine, sweetened and laced with fellis fruit juice.
“I want F’nor,” he said petulantly.
Lessa looked down at him for the coughing spasm had left him limp.
“If we can pry him away from Brekke.”
F’lar’s lips set in a thin line.
“You mean, only you, F’lar, Benden Weyrleader, can flout tradition?” she asked.
“That isn’t . . .”
“If it’s your pet project you’re worrying about, I had N’ton secure Thread . . .”
“N’ton?” F’lar’s eyes flew open in surprise.
“Yes. He’s a good lad and, from what I heard at Fort Weyr last night, very deft in being exactly where he is needed, unobtrusively.”
“And . . .?”
“And? Well, when the next queen at Fort Weyr rises, he’ll undoubtedly take the Leadership. Which is what you intended, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, the Thread.”
Lessa felt her guts turn over at the memory. “As you thought, the grubs rose to the surface the instant we put the Thread in. Very shortly there was no more Thread.”
F’lar’s eyes shone and he parted his lips in a triumphant smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
At that, Lessa jammed both fists against her waist and awarded him one of her sternest looks.
“Because there have been a few other things to occupy my mind and time. This is not something we can discuss in open session, after all. Why, if even such loyal riders as . . .”
“What did N’ton say? Does he fully understand what I’m trying to do?”
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 57