Dragonquest

CHAPTER VIII

Midmorning at Southern Weyr

.

“No, Rannelly, I’ve not seen Kylara all morning,” Brekke told the old woman patiently, for the fourth time that morning.

“And you’ve not taken a good look at your own poor queen, either, I’ll warrant, fooling around with these – these nuisancy flitterbys,” Rannelly retorted, grumbling as she limped out of the Weyrhall.

Brekke had finally found time to see to Mirrim’s wounded brown. He was so stuffed with juicy tidbits from the hand of his overzealous nurse that he barely opened one lid when Brekke inspected him. Numbweed worked as well on lizard as on dragon and human.

“He’s doing just fine, dear,” Brekke told the anxious girl, the greens fluttering on the child’s shoulders in response to her exaggerated sigh of relief. “Now, don’t overfeed them. They’ll split their hides.”

“Do you think they’ll stay?”

“With such care as you lavish on them, sweeting, they’re not likely to leave. But you have chores which I cannot in conscience permit you to shirk . . .”

“All because of Kylara . . .”

“Mirrim!”

Ashamed, the girl hung her head, but she deeply resented the fact that Kylara gave all the orders and did no work leaving her tasks to fall to Brekke. It wasn’t fair. Mirrim was very very glad that the little lizards had preferred her to that woman.

“What did old Rannelly mean about your queen? You take good care of Wirenth. She lacks for nothing,” said Mirrim.

“Ssssh. I’ll go see. I left her sleeping.”

“Rannelly’s as bad as Kylara. She thinks she’s so wise and knows everything . . .”

Brekke was about to scold her fosterling when she heard F’nor calling her.

“The green riders are bringing back some of the meat hung in the salt caves,” she said, issuing quick instructions instead. “None of that is to go to the lizards, Mirrim. Now, mind. The boys can trap wild wherries. Their meat is as good, if not better. We’ve no idea what effect too much red-blood meat will have on lizards.” With that caution to inhibit Mirrim’s impulsive generosity, Brekke went out to meet F’nor.

“There’s been no rider in from Benden?” he asked her, easing the arm sling across his shoulder.

“You’d’ve heard instantly,” she assured him, deftly adjusting the cloth at his neck. “In fact,” she added in mild rebuke, “there are no riders in the Weyr at all today.”

F’nor chuckled. “And not much to show for their absence, either. There isn’t a beach along the coastline that doesn’t have a dragon couchant, with rider a-coil, feigning sleep.”

Brekke put her hand to her mouth. It wouldn’t do for Mirrim to hear her giggling like a weyrling.

“Oh, you laugh?”

“Aye, and they’ve made a note of both occasions that I did,” she said with due solemnity, but her eyes danced. Then she noticed that the saying was missing its usual occupant. “Where’s . . .”

“Grall is curled between Canth’s eyes, so stuffed she’d likely not move if we went between. Which I’ve half a mind to do. If you hadn’t told me I could trust G’nag, I’d swear he’s not delivered my letter to F’lar, or else he’s lost it.”

“You are not going between with that wound, F’nor. And if G’nag said he delivered the letter, he did. Perhaps something has come up.”

“More important than Impressing fire lizards?”

“There could be something. Threads are falling out of phase – ” Brekke broke off, she oughtn’t to have reminded F’nor of that, judging by the bleak expression on his face. “Maybe not, but they’ve got to get the Lord Holders to supply watchers and fires and it may be F’lar is occupied with that. It certainly isn’t your fault you’re not there to help. Those odious Fort riders have no self-control. Imagine taking a green out of her Weyr close to mating – ” Brekke stopped again, snapping her mouth closed. “But Rannelly said ‘my queen,’ not ‘her’ queen.”

The girl turned so white that F’nor thrust his good hand under her elbow to steady her.

“What’s the matter? Kylara hasn’t ducked Prideth out of here when she’s due to mate? Where is Kylara, by the way?”

“I don’t know. I must check Wirenth. Oh, no, she couldn’t be!”

F’nor followed the girl’s swift steps through the great hanging trees that arched over the Southern Weyr’s sprawling compound.

“Wirenth’s scarcely hatched,” he called after her and then remembered that Wirenth was actually a long time out of her shell. It was just that he tended to think of Brekke as the most recent of the Southern Weyrwomen. Brekke looked so young, much too young . . .

She is the same age as Lessa was when Mnementh first flew Ramoth, Canth informed him.

“Is Wirenth ready to rise?” F’nor asked his brown, stopping dead in his tracks.

Soon. Soon. Bronzes will know.

F’nor ticked over in his mind the bronze complement of Southern. The tally didn’t please him. Not that the bronzes were few in number, a discourtesy to a new queen, but that their riders had always contended for Kylara, whether Prideth’s mating was at stake or not. No matter whose bronze flew Wirenth, the rider would have Brekke and the thought of anyone who had vyed for Kylara’s bed favor making love to Brekke irritated the brown rider.

Canth’s as big or bigger than any bronze here, he thought resentfully. He had never entertained such an invidious comparison before and ruthlessly put it out of his mind.

Now, if N’ton, a clean-cut lad and a top wingrider just happened to be in Southern? Or B’dor of Ista Weyr. F’nor had ridden with the Istan when his Weyr and Benden joined forces over Nerat and Keroon. Nicely conformed bronzes, both of them, and while F’nor favored N’ton more, if B’dor’s beast flew Wirenth, she and Brekke would have the option of removing to Ista Weyr. They’d only three queens there, and Nadira was a far better Weyrwoman than Kylara, despite her coming from the Oldtime.

Pleased with this solution, though he hadn’t a notion how to accomplish it, F’nor continued along the path to Wirenth’s sun-baked clearing.

He paused at the edge, affected by the sight of Brekke, totally involved with her queen. The girl stood at Wirenth’s head, her body gracefully inclined against the dragon, as she tenderly scratched the near eye ridge. Wirenth was somnolent, one lid turning back enough to prove she was aware of the attention, her wedge-shaped head resting on one foreleg, her hindquarters neatly tucked under and framed by her long, graceful tail. In the sun she gleamed with an orange-yellow of excellent health – a color which would very shortly turn a deeper-burnished gold. All too shortly, F’nor realized, for Wirenth had lost every trace of the fatty softness of adolescence; her hide was sleek and smooth, not a blemish to suggest imperfect care. She was an extremely well-proportioned dragon; not one bit too leggy, short-tailed or wherry-necked. Despite her size, for she was easily the length of Prideth, she had a more lithesome appearance. She was one of the best bred from Ramoth and Mnementh.

F’nor frowned slightly at Brekke, subtly changed in her dragon’s presence. She seemed more feminine – and desirable. Sensing him, Brekke turned, and the languid look of adoration for her queen made her radiant face almost embarrassing to F’nor.

He hastily cleared his throat. “She’ll rise soon, you realize,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

“Yes, I think she will, my beauty. I wonder how that will affect him,” Brekke asked, her expression altering. She stepped to one side and pointed to the tiny bronze tucked between Wirenth’s jaw and forearm.

“Can’t tell, can we?” F’nor replied and, with another series of throat-clearings, covered his savagery at the thought of Brekke mating any of the bronze riders at Southern.

“You’re not sickening with something, are you?” she asked with concern and was abruptly transformed back into the Brekke he knew best.

“No. Who’s going to be the lucky rider?” he heard himself asking. It was a civil enough question. He was, after all, F’lar’s Wing-second and had a right to be curious about such matters. “You can ask for an open flight, you know,” he added defensively.

She turned pale and leaned back against Wirenth. As if for comfort.

As if for comfort, F’nor repeated the observation to himself, and remembered, with no relief, the way Brekke had looked at T’bor the day before. “It doesn’t matter if the rider’s already attached, you know, not in a first mating.” He blurted it out, then realized, like the greenest dolt that that was stupid. Brekke’d know exactly what Kylara’s reaction would be if T’bor’s Orth flew Wirenth. She’d know she would have no peace at all. He groaned at his ineptitude.

“Your arm is hurting?” she asked, solicitous.

“No. Not my arm,” and he stepped forward, gripping her shoulder with his good hand. “Look, it’d be better if you called for an open flight. There are plenty of good bronzes. N’ton of Benden Weyr, B’dor of Ista Weyr. Both are fine men with good beasts. Then you could leave Southern . . .”

Brekke’s eyes were closed and she seemed to go limp in his grasp.

“No! No!” The denial was so soft he barely heard it. “I belong here. Not – Benden.”

“N’ton could transfer.”

A shudder went through Brekke’s body and her eyes flew open. She slipped away from his grip.

“No, N’ton – shouldn’t come to Southern,” she said in a flat voice

“He’s got no use for Kylara, you know,” F’nor continued, determined to reassure her. “She doesn’t succeed with every man, you know. And you’re a very sweet person, you know.”

With a shift of mood as sudden as any of Lessa’s, Brekke smiled up at him.

“That’s nice to know.”

And somehow F’nor had to laugh with her, at his own blundering interference, at the notion of him, a brown rider giving advice to someone like Brekke, who had more sense in her smallest finger than he.

Well, he was going to get a message to N’ton and B’dor anyhow. Ramoth would help him.

“Have you named your lizard?” he asked.

“Berd. Wirenth and I decided. She likes him,” Brekke replied, smiling tenderly on the sleeping pair. “Although it’s very confusing. Why do I have a bronze, you a queen and Mirrim three?”

F’nor shrugged and grinned at her. “Why not? Of course, once we tell them that’s not how it’s done, they may conform to time-honored couplings.”

“What I meant was, if the fire lizards – who seem to be miniature dragons – can be Impressed by anyone who approaches them at the crucial moment, then fighting dragons – not just queens who don’t chew firestone anyhow – could be Impressed by women, too.”

“Fighting Thread is hard work. Leave it to men.”

“You think managing a Weyr isn’t hard work?” Brekke kept her voice even but her eyes darkened angrily. “Or plowing fields and hollowing cliffs for Holds? And . . .”

F’nor whistled. “Why, Brekke, such revolutionary thoughts from a craftbred girl? Where women know there’s only one place for them . . . Oh, you’ve got Mirrim in mind as a rider?”

“Yes. She’d be as good or better than some of the male weyrlings I know,” and there was such asperity in Brekke’s voice that F’nor wondered just which boys she found so lacking. “Her ability to Impress three fire lizards indicates . . .”

“Hey – backwing a bit, girl. We’ve enough trouble with the Oldtimers as it is without trying to get them to accept a girl riding a fighting dragon! C’mon, Brekke. I know your fondness for the child and she seems a good intelligent girl, but you must be realistic.”

“I am,” Brekke replied, so emphatically that F’nor looked at her in surprise. Some riders should have been crafters or farmers – or – nothing, but they were acceptable to dragons on Hatching. Others are real riders, heart and soul and mind. Dragons are the beginning and end of their ambition. Mirrim . . .”

A dragon broke into the air above the Weyr, trumpeting.

“F’lar!” With such a wingspan, it could be no other.

F’nor broke into a run, motioning Brekke to follow him to the Weyr landing field.

“No. You go. Wirenth’s waking. I’ll wait.”

F’nor was relieved that she preferred to stay. He didn’t want her to come out with that drastic theory in front of F’lar, particularly when he wanted his half-brother to shift N’ton and B’dor here for her sake. Anything to spare Brekke the kind of scene Kylara would throw if T’bor’s Orth flew Wirenth.

“Where is everyone?” was F’lar’s curt greeting as his brother joined him. “Where’s Kylara? Mnementh can’t find Prideth. She’s not to be haring off on her own.”

“Everyone’s out trying to trap fire lizards.”

“With Thread falling out of pattern? Of all the stupidities . . . This continent is by no means immune! Where in the image of all shells is T’bor? That’d be all we need – Threads ravaging the southern continent!”

The outburst was so uncharacteristic that F’nor stared at the Weyrleader. F’lar passed his hand over his eyes, rubbing his temples. The cold of between had started his headache again. The talk at the Crafthall had been unsettling. He gripped his half-brother’s arm in apology.

“That was inexcusable of me, F’nor. I beg your pardon.”

“Accepted, of course. That’s Orth wheeling in right now.” F’nor decided to wait before asking F’lar what was really bothering him. He could just imagine what Raid of Benden Hold or Sifer of Bitra Hold had had to say about new levies of manpower. Probably felt that the change of Threadfall was a personal insult, dreamed up by Benden Weyr to annoy the faithful Holds of Pern.

T’bor landed and strode toward the waiting men.

Perhaps Brekke was not so far off in her heretical doctrine, F’nor thought. T’bor had made Southern Weyr self-sufficient and productive, no small task. He’d obviously have made a good Holder.

“Orth said you were here, F’lar. What brings you to Southern? You heard our news about the fire lizards?” T’bor called, brushing the sand from his clothes as he walked.

“Yes, I did,” replied F’lar in so formal a tone that T’bor’s welcoming smile faded. “And I thought you’d heard ours, that Thread is dropping out of pattern.”

“There’s a rider along every inch of coastline, F’lar, so don’t accuse me of negligence,” T’bor said, his smile returning. “Dragons don’t need to be a-wing to spot Thread. Shells, man, you can hear it hissing across the water.”

“I assume you were looking for fire lizard eggs?” F’lar sounded testy and not completely reassured by T’bor’s report. “Have you found any?”

T’bor shook his head. “There’s evidence, far to the west, of another clutch, but there isn’t a sign of shell or corpse. The wherries can make fast work of anything edible.”

“Were I you, T’bor, I’d not release an entire Weyr to search for lizard eggs. There’s no guarantee Thread will move in on this continent from the ocean.”

“But it always has. What little we get.”

“Thread fell ten hours before schedule across Lemos north when it should have fallen on Lemos south and Telgar southeast,” F’lar told him in a hard voice. “I have since heard that Thread fell, unchecked,” and he paused to let that sink in to T’bor’s mind, “in Telgar Hold and Crom Hold, both times out of phase with the tables, though we do not yet know the time differential. We can’t rely on any previous performance.”

“I’ll mount guards immediately and send the wings to sweep as far south as we’ve penetrated,” T’bor said briskly and, shrugging into his riding jacket, trotted back to Orth. They were aloft in one great leap.

“Orth looks well,” F’lar said and then eyed his half-brother closely before he smiled, jabbing a fist affectionately at F’nor’s good shoulder. “You do, too. How’s the arm healing?”

“I’m at Southern,” F’nor replied in oblique explanation. “Are Threadfalls really that erratic?”

“I don’t know,” F’lar said with an irritable shrug. “Tell me about these fire lizards if you please. Are they worth the time of every able-bodied rider in this Weyr? Where’s yours? I’d like to see it for myself before I go back to Benden.” He glanced northeast, frowning.

“Shells, can’t I leave Benden Weyr for a week without everything falling apart?” F’nor demanded so vehemently that F’lar stared at him in momentary surprise before he chuckled and seemed to relax. “That’s better,” F’nor said, echoing the grin. “Come. There are a couple of the lizards in the Weyrhall and I need some klah. I was out hunting clutches all morning myself, you know. Or would you prefer to sample some of Southern’s wine?”

“Ha!” F’lar made the exclamation a challenge.

When they entered the Weyrhall, Mirrim was there alone stirring the stew in the big kettles. The two greens were watching her from the long, wide mantel. She gave the appearance of having an odd deformity of chest until F’nor realized that she had rigged a sling around her shoulders in which the wounded brown was suspended, his little eyes pinpoints of light. At the sound of their boots on the paving, she swung round, her eyes wide with an apprehension which turned to surprise as she glanced from F’nor to F’lar. Her mouth made an “o” of astonishment as she recognized the Benden Weyrleader by his resemblance to F’nor.

“And you’re the – the young lady who Impressed three?” F’lar asked, crossing the big room to her.

Mirrim bobbed a series of nervous curtsies, causing the brown to squawk in protest to such bouncing.

“May I see him?” F’lar asked and deftly stroked a tiny eye ridge. “He’s a real beauty! Canth in miniature,” and F’lar glanced slyly at his half-brother to see if the jibe registered. “Will he recover from his wounds – ah . . .”

“Mirrim is her name,” F’nor prompted in a bland tone that implied his brother’s memory was failing him.

“Oh, no, Weyrleader – he’s healing nicely,” the girl said with another bob.

“Full stomach, I see,” F’lar commented approvingly. He glanced at the pair huddled together on the mantel and crooned soft encouragement. They began to preen, stretching fragile, translucent green wings, arching their backs and emitting an echoing hum in pleasure. “You’ll have your hands full with this trio.”

“I’ll manage them, sir. I promise. And I won’t forget my duties, either,” she said breathlessly, her eyes still wide. With a gasp, she turned to give a splashing stir to the contents of the nearest pot, then whirled back again before the men could turn. “Brekke’s not here. Would you like some klah? Or the stew? Or some . . .”

“We’ll serve ourselves,” F’nor assured her, picking up two mugs.

“Oh, I ought to do that, sir . . .”

“You ought to watch your kettles, Mirrim. We’ll manage,” F’lar told her kindly, mentally contrasting the state of domestic affairs at the Crafthall to the order and the cooking of good rich food at this hall.

He motioned the brown rider to take the table furthest from the kitchen hearth.

“Can you hear anything from the lizards?” he asked in a low voice.

“From hers, you mean? No, but I can easily see what they must be thinking from their reactions. Why?”

“Idle question. But she’s not from a Search, is she?”

“No, of course not. She’s Brekke’s fosterling.”

“Hmmm. Then she’s not exactly proof, is she?”

“Proof of what, F’lar? I’ve suffered no head injury but I can’t follow your thought.”

F’lar gave his brother an absent smile and then exhaled wearily.

“We’re going to have trouble with the Lord Holders – they’re disillusioned and dissatisfied with the Oldtime Weyrs and are going to balk at any more expeditious measures against Thread.”

“Raid and Sifer give you a hard time?”

“I wish it were only that, F’nor. They’d come round.” F’lar gave his half-brother a terse account of what he’d learned from Lytol, Robinton and Fandarel the day before.

“Brekke was right when she said something really important had come up,’ F’nor said afterward. “But . . .”

“Yes, that news’s a hard roll to eat, all right, but our ever efficient Craftsmith’s got what might be an answer, not only to the watch on Thread but to establishing decent communications with every Hold and Hall on Pern. Especially since we can’t get the Old-timers to assign riders outside the Weyrs. I saw a demonstration of the device today and we’re going to rig one for the Lord Holders at Telgar’s wedding . . .”

“And the Threads will wait for that?”

F’lar snorted. “They may be the lesser evil, frankly. The Threads prove to be more flexible in their ways than the Oldtimers and less trouble than the Lord Holders.”

“One of the basic troubles between Lord Holders and Weyrmen are dragons, F’lar, and those fire lizards might just ease matters.”

“That’s what I was thinking earlier, considering that young Mirrim had Impressed three. That’s really astonishing, even if she is weyrbred.”

“Brekke would like to see her Impress a fighting dragon,” F’nor said in a casual way, watching his half-brother’s face closely.

F’lar gave him a startled stare and then threw back his head and laughed.

“Can you . . . imagine . . . T’ron’s reaction?” . . . he managed to say.

“Well enough to spare myself your version, but the fire lizard may do the trick! And, have the added talent of keeping Hold in contact with Weyr if these creatures prove amenable to training.”

“If – if! Just how similar to dragons are fire lizards?”

F’nor shrugged. “As I told you, they are Impressionable – if rather undiscriminating,” he pointed to Mirrim at the Hearth and then grinned maliciously, “although they detested Kylara on sight. They’re slaves to their stomachs, though after Hatching that’s very definitely draconic. They respond to affection and flattery. The dragons themselves admit the relationship, seem totally free of jealousy of the creatures. I can detect basic emotions in the thoughts of mine and they generally inspire affection in those who handle them.”

“And they can go between?”

“Grall – my little queen – did. About chewing firestone I couldn’t hazard a guess. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“And we don’t have time,” F’lar said, clenching his fists, his eyes restless with the current of his thoughts.

“If we could find a hardened clutch, all set to Hatch, in time for that wedding – that, combined with Fandarel’s gadget – ” F’nor let his sentence trail off.

F’lar got up in a single decisive movement. “I’d like to see your queen. You named her Grall?”

“You’re solid dragonman, F’lar,” F’nor chuckled, remembering what Brekke had said. “You had no trouble remembering the lizard’s name but the girls – ? Never mind, F’lar. Grall’s with Canth.”

“Any chance you could call her – here?”

F’nor considered the intriguing possibility but shook his head.

“She’s asleep, full up to the jawline.”

She was and daintily curled in the hollow by Canth’s left ear. Her belly was distended from the morning’s meal and F’nor dabbed it with sweet oil. She condescended to lift two lids but her eye was so dull she did not take notice of the additional visitor, nor Mnementh peering down at her. He thought her a very interesting creature.

“Charming. Lessa’ll want one, I’m sure,” F’lar murmured, a delighted half-smile on his face as he jumped down from Canth’s forearm on which he’d stood to observe her. “Hope she grows a little. Canth could yawn and inadvertently inhale her.”

Never, and the brown’s comment did not need to be passed to the bronze rider.

“If we’d only an estimate of how long it would take to train them, if they are trainable. But time’s as inflexible as an Oldtimer.” F’lar looked his half-brother squarely in the eye, no longer hiding the deep worry that gnawed at him.

“Not entirely, F’lar,” the brown rider said, returning his gaze steadily. “As you said, the greater evil is the sickness in our own . . .”

A dragon’s brassy scream, the klaxon of Thread attack, stopped F’nor mid-sentence. The brown rider had swung toward his dragon, instinctively reacting to the alert, when F’lar caught him by the arm.

“You can’t fight thread with an unhealed wound, man. Where do they keep firestone here?”

Whatever criticism F’lar might have had of T’bor’s permissiveness at Southern, he could not fault the instant response of the Weyr’s fighting complement. Dragons swarmed in the skies before the alert had faded. Dragons swooped to weyrs while riders fetched fighting gear and firestone. The Weyr’s women and children were at the supply shed, stuffing sacks. A message had been sent to the seahold where fishermen from Tillek and Ista had established a settlement. They acted as ground crew. By the time F’lar was equipped and aloft, T’bor was issuing the coordinates.

Thread was falling in the west, at the edge of the desert where the terrain was swampy, where sharp broad-edged grasses were interspersed with dwarfed spongewoods and low berry bushes. For Thread, the muddy swamp was superb burrowing ground, with sufficient organisms on which to feed as the burrow proliferated and spread.

The wings, fully manned and in good order, went between at T’bor’s command. And, in a breath, the dragons hung again in sultry air and began to flame at the thick patches of Thread.

T’bor had signaled a low altitude entry, of which F’lar approved. But the wing movement was upward, seeking Thread at ever higher levels as they eliminated the immediate airborne danger. Weyrfolk and convalescents swelled the seahold group as ground crew but F’lar thought they’d need low ground support here. There were only three fighting queens, and where was Kylara?

F’lar directed Mnementh to fly a skim pattern just as the ground crews arrived, piling off the transport dragons, and flaming any patch of grass that seemed to move. They kept shouting to know where the leading Edge of the Fall was and F’lar directed Mnementh east by north. Mnementh complied, and abruptly turned due north, his head barely skimming the vegetation. He backwinged so abruptly that he nearly offset his rider. He hovered, peering so intently at the ground, that F’lar leaned over the great neck to see what attracted him. Dragons could adjust the focus of their eyes to either great distances or close inspection.

Something moved – away, the dragon said.

The gusts of his backwinging flattened grasses. Then F’lar saw the pin-sized, black-rimmed punctures of Thread on the leaves of the berry bushes. He stared hard, trying to discern the telltale evidence of burrows, the upheaval of soil, the consumption of the lush swamp greenery. The bush, the grass, the soil stood still.

“What moved?”

Something bright. It’s gone.

Mnementh landed, his feet sinking into the oozing terrain. F’lar jumped off and peered closely at the bush. Had the holes been made by droplets of hot Thread during a previous Fall? No. The leaves would long since have dropped off. He examined every nearby hummock of grass. Not a sign of burrows. Yet Thread had fallen – and it had to be this Fall – had pierced leaves, grass and tree over a widespread area – and vanished without a trace. No, that was impossible! Gingerly, for viable Thread could eat through wher-hide gloves, F’lar dug around the berry bush. Mnementh helpfully scooped out a deep trench nearby. The displaced soil teamed with grub life, writhing in among the thick tough grass roots. The unexpectedly gray, gnarly taproots of the bush were thick with the black earth but not a sign of Thread.

Mystified, F’lar raised his eyes in answer to a summons from the hovering weyrlings.

They wish to know if this is the Edge of Threadfall, Mnementh reported to his rider.

“It must be further south,” F’lar replied and waved the weyrlings in that direction. He stood looking down at the overturned earth, at the grubs burrowing frantically away from sunlight. He picked up a stout barkless branch and jabbed the earth of the trench Mnementh had made, prodding for the cavities that meant Thread infestations. “It has to be further south. I don’t understand this.” He ripped a handful of the leaves from a berry bush and sifted them through his gloves. “If this happened some time ago, rain would have washed the char from the punctures. The damaged leaves would have dropped.”

He began to work his way south, and slightly east, trying to ascertain exactly where Thread had started. Foliage on every side gave evidence of its passage but he found no burrows.

When he located drowned Thread in the brackish water of a swamp pool, he had to consider that as the leading Edge. But he wasn’t satisfied and bogged himself down in syrtis muds investigating, so that Mnementh had to pull him free.

So intent was he on the anomalies of this Fall, that he did not notice the passage of time. He was somewhat startled, then, to have T’bor appear overhead, announcing the end of Fall. And both men were alarmed when the ground-crew chief, a young fisherman from Ista named Toric, verified that the Fall had lasted a scant two hours since discovery.

“A short Fall, I know, but there’s nothing above, and Toric here says the ground crews are mopping up the few patches that got through,” T’bor said, rather pleased with the efficient performance of his Weyr.

Every instinct told F’lar that something was wrong. Could Thread have changed its habits that drastically? He had no precedent. It always fell in four-hour spans – yet clearly the sky was bare.

“I need your counsel, T’bor,” he said and there was that edge of concern in his voice that brought the other to his side instantly.

F’lar scooped up a handful of the brackish water, showing him the filaments of drowned Thread.

“Ever notice this before?”

“Yes, indeed,” T’bor replied in a hearty voice, obviously relieved. “Happens all the time here. Not many fish to eat Thread in these foot-sized pools.”

“Then there’s something in the swamp waters that does for them?”

“What do you mean?”

Wordlessly, F’lar tipped back the scarred foliage nearest him. He warily turned down the broad saw-edged swamp grasses. Catching T’bor’s stunned eyes, he gestured back the way he had come, where ground crews moved without one belch of flame from their throwers.

“You mean, it’s like that? How far back?”

“To Threadfall Edge, an hour’s fast walk,” F’lar replied grimly. “Or rather. that’s where I assume Thread Edge is.”

“I’ve seen bushes and grasses marked like that in these swampy deltas closer to the Weyr,” T’bor admitted slowly his face blanched under the tan, “but I thought it was char. We mark so few infestations – and there’ve been no burrows.”

T’bor was shaken.

Orth says there have been no infestations, Mnementh reported quietly and Orth briefly turned glowing eyes toward the Benden Weyrleader.

“And Thread was always short-timed?” F’lar wanted to know.

Orth says this is the first, but then the alarm came late.

T’bor turned haunted eyes to F’lar.

“It wasn’t a short Fall, then,” he said, half-hoping to be contradicted.

Just then Canth veered in to land. F’lar suppressed a reprimand when he saw the flame thrower on his half-brother’s back.

“That was the most unusual Fall I’ve ever attended,” F’nor cried as he saluted the two bronze riders. “We can’t have got it all airborne, but there’s not a trace of burrow. And dead Thread in every water pocket. I suppose we should be grateful. But I don’t understand it.”

“I don’t like it, F’lar,” T’bor said, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. Thread wasn’t due here for another few weeks, and then, not in this area.”

“Thread apparently is falling when and where it chooses.”

“How can Thread choose?” T’bor demanded with the anger of a frightened man. “It’s mindless!”

F’lar gazed up at tropical skies so brilliant that the fateful stare of the Red Star, low on the horizon, wasn’t visible.

“If the Red Star deviates for four hundred Turn Intervals, why not a variation in the way it falls?”

“What do we do then?” asked T’bor, a note of desperation in his voice. Thread that pierces and doesn’t burrow! Thread falling days out of phase and then for only two hours!”

“Put out Sweepriders, to begin with, and let me know where and when Thread falls here. As you said, Thread is mindless. Even in these new Shifts, we may find a predictable pattern.” F’lar frowned up at the hot sun; he was sweating in the wher-hide fighting clothes more suited to upper levels and cold between.

“Fly a sweep with me, F’lar,” T’bor suggested anxiously. “F’nor, are you up to it? If we missed even one burrow here . . .”

T’bor had Orth call in every rider, even the weyrlings, told them what to look for, what was feared.

The entire complement of Southern spread out, wingtip to wingtip, flying at minimum altitude, and scanned the swampy region right back to Fall Edge. Not one man or beast could report any unusual disturbance of greenery or ground. The land over which Thread had so recently fallen was now undeniably Threadfree.

The clearance made T’bor even more apprehensive, but another tour seemed pointless. The fighting wings went between to the Weyr then, leaving the convalescents to fly straight.

As T’bor and F’lar glided in over the Weyr compound, the roofs of the weyrholds and the bare black soil and rock of the dragonbeds flashed under them like a pattern through the leaves of the giant fellis and spongewood trees. In the main clearing by the Weyrhall, Prideth extended her neck and wings, bugling to her Weyrmates.

“Circle once again, Mnementh,” F’lar said to his bronze. First he’d better get over the urge to beat Kylara, and give T’bor the chance to reprimand her privately. He regretted once more, that he had ever suggested to Lessa that she pressure that female into being a Weyrwoman. It had seemed a logical solution at the time. And he was sincerely sorry for T’bor although the man did manage to keep her worst depredations under control. But the absence of a queen from a Weyr . . . Well, how could Kylara have known Thread would fall here ahead of schedule? Yet where was she that she couldn’t hear that alarm? No dragon slept that deeply.

He circled as the rest of the dragons peeled off to their weyrs and realized that none had had to descend by the Infirmary.

“Fighting Thread with no casualties?”

I like that, Mnementh remarked.

Somehow that aspect of the day’s encounter unsettled F’lar the most. Rather than delve into that, F’lar judged it time to land. He didn’t relish the thought of confronting Kylara, but he hadn’t had the chance to tell T’bor what had been happening north.

“I told you,” Kylara was saying in sullen anger, “that I found a clutch and Impressed this queen. When I got back, there wasn’t anyone left here who knew where you’d all gone. Prideth has to have coordinates, you know.” She turned toward F’lar now, her eyes glittering. “My duty to you, F’lar of Benden,” and her voice took on a caressing tone which made T’bor stiffen and clench his teeth. “How kind of you to fight with us when Benden Weyr has troubles of its own.”

F’lar ignored the jibe and nodded a curt acknowledgment.

“See my fire lizard. Isn’t she magnificent?” She held up her right arm, exhibiting the drowsing golden lizard, the outlines of her latest meal pressing sharp designs against her belly hide.

“Wirenth was here and Brekke. They knew,” T’bor told her.

“Her!” Kylara dismissed the Weyrwoman with a negligent shrug of contempt. “She gave me some nonsensical coordinates, deep in the western swamp. Threads don’t fall.

‘They did today,” T’bor cried, his face suffused with anger.

“Do tell!”

Prideth began to rumble restlessly and Kylara, the hard defiant lines of her face softening, turned to reassure her.

“See, you’ve made her uneasy and she’s so near mating again.

T’bor looked dangerously close to an outburst which, as Weyrleader, he could not risk. Kylara’s tactic was so obvious that F’lar wondered how the man could fall for it. Would it improve matters to have T’bor supplanted by one of the other bronze riders here? F’lar considered, as he had before, throwing Prideth’s next mating flight into open competition. And yet, he owed T’bor too much for coping with this – this female to insult him by such a measure. On the other hand, maybe one of the more vigorous Oldtime bronzes with a rider just sufficiently detached from Kylara’s ploys, and interested enough in retaining a Leadership, might keep her firmly in line.

“T’bor, the map of this continent’s in the Weyrhall, isn’t it?” F’lar asked, diverting the man. “I’d like to set the co-ordinates of this Fall in my mind. . “

“Don’t you like my queen?” Kylara asked, stepping forward and raising the lizard right under F’lar’s nose.

The little creature, unbalanced by the sudden movement, dug her razor-sharp claws into Kylara’s arm, piercing the wher-hide as easily as Thread pierced leaf. With a yelp, Kylara shook her arm, dislodging the fire lizard. In midfall the creature disappeared. Kylara’s cry of pain changed to a shriek of anger.

“Look what you’ve done, you fool. You’ve lost her.”

“Not I, Kylara,” F’lar replied in a hard, cold voice. “Take good care you do not push others to their limit!”

“I’ve limits, too, F’lar of Benden,” she screamed as the two men strode quickly toward the Weyrhall. “Don’t push me. D’you hear? Don’t push me!” She kept up her curses until Prideth, now highly agitated, drowned her out with piteous cries.

At first the two Weyrleaders went through the motions of studying the map and trying to figure out where Thread might have fallen elsewhere undetected on the Southern continent. Then Prideth’s complaints died away and the clearing was vacant.

“It comes down to manpower again, T’bor,– F’lar said. There ought to be a thorough search of this continent. Oh, I’m aware,” and he held up his hand to forestall a defensive rebuttal, “that you simply don’t have the personnel to help, even with the influx of holderfolk from the mainland. But Thread can cross mountains,” he tapped the southern chain, “and we don’t know what’s been happening in these uncharted areas. We’ve assumed that Threadfall occurred only in this coastline portion. Once established though, a single burrow could eat its way across any land mass and – ” He made a slashing movement of both hands. “I’d give a lot to know how Thread could fall unnoticed in those swamps for two hours and leave no trace of a burrow!”

T’bor grunted agreement but F’lar sensed that his mind was not on this problem.

“You’ve had more than your share of grief with that woman, T’bor. Why not throw the next flight open?”

“No!” And Orth echoed that vehement refusal with a roar.

F’lar looked at T’bor in amazement.

“No, F’lar. I’ll keep her in hand. I’ll keep myself in hand, too. But as only as Orth can fly Prideth, Kylara’s mine.”

F’lar looked quickly away from the torment in the other’s face.

“And you’d better know this, too,” T’bor continued in a heavy low voice. “She found a full clutch. She took them to a Hold. Prideth told Orth.”

“Which Hold?”

T’bor shook his head wearily. “Prideth doesn’t like it so she doesn’t name it. She doesn’t like taking fire lizards away from the weyrs either.”

F’lar brushed his forelock back from his eyes in an irritated movement. This was the most unhealthy development. A dragon displeased with her rider? The one restraint they had all counted on was Kylara’s bond with Prideth. The woman wouldn’t be fool enough, wanton enough, perverted enough to strain that, too, in her egocentric selfishness.

Prideth will not hear me, Mnementh said suddenly. She will not hear Orth. She is unhappy. That isn’t good.

Threads falling unexpectedly, fire lizards in Holder hands, a dragon displeased with her rider and another anticipating his rider’s questions! And F’lar had thought he’d had problems seven Turns ago!

“I can’t sort this all out right now, T’bor. Please mount guards and let me know the instant you’ve any news of any kind. If you do uncover another clutch, I would very much appreciate some of the eggs. Let me know, too, if that little queen returns to Kylara. I grant the creature had reason, but if they frighten between so easily, they may be worthless except as pets.”

F’lar mounted Mnementh and saluted the Southern Weyrleader, reassured by nothing in this visit. And he’d lost the advantage of surprising the Lord Holders with fire lizards. In fact, Kylara’s precipitous donation would undoubtedly cause more trouble. A Weyrwoman meddling in a Hold not bound to her own Weyr? He almost hoped that these creatures would be nothing more than pets and her action could be soft-talked. Still, there was the psychological effect of that miniature dragon, Impressionable by anyone. That would have been a valuable asset in improving Weyr-Hold relations.

As Mnementh climbed higher, to the cooler levels. F’lar worried most about that Threadfall. It had fallen. It had pierced leaf and grass, drowned in the water, and yet left no trace of itself in the rich earth. Igen’s sandworms would devour Thread, almost as efficiently as agenothree. But the grub life that had swarmed in the rich black swamp mud bore little resemblance to the segmented, shelled worms.

Unable to leave Southern without a final check, F’lar gave Mnementh the order to transfer to the western swamp. The bronze obediently brought him right to the trench his claw had made. F’lar slid from his shoulder, opening the wher-hide tunic as the humid, sticky, sun-steamed swamp air pressed against him like a thick wet skin. There was a ringing, rasping chorus of tiny sound all around him, splashings and burblings, none of which he’d noted earlier in the day. In fact, the swamp had been remarkably silent, as if hushed by the menace of Thread.

When he turned back the hummock of grass by the roots of the berry bush, the earth was untenanted, the gray roots sleekly damp. Kicking up another section, he did find a small cluster of the larvae, but not in the earlier profusion. He held the muddy ball in his hand, watching the grubs squirm away from light and air. It was then that he saw that the foliage of that bush was no longer Thread-scored. The char had disappeared and a thin film was forming over the hole, as if the bush were mending itself.

Something writhed against the skin of his palm and he hastily dropped the ball of dirt, rubbing his hand against his leg.

He broke off a leaf, the sign of Thread healing in the green foliage.

Could the grubs possibly be the southern continent’s equivalent of sandworms?

Abruptly he gave a running jump to Mnementh’s shoulder, grabbing the riding straps.

“Mnementh, take me back to the beginning of this Fall. That’d make it six hours back. The sun would be at zenith.”

Mnementh didn’t grumble but his thoughts were plain. F’lar was tired, F’lar ought to go back to Benden and rest, talk to Lessa. Jumping between time was hard on a rider.

Cold between enveloped them and F’lar hastily closed the tunic he’d opened, but not before the cold seemed to eat into his chest bone. He shivered, with more than physical chill, as they burst out over the steamy swamp again. It took more than a few minutes under that blazing sun to counteract the merciless cold. Mnementh glided briefly northward and then hovered, facing due south.

They didn’t have long to wait. High above, the ominous grayness that presaged Threadfall darkened the sky. As often as he had watched it, F’lar never rid himself of fear. And it was harder still to watch that distant grayness begin to separate into sheets and patches of silvery Thread. To watch and to permit it to fall unchecked on the swamp below. To watch as it pierced leaf and green, hissing as it penetrated the mud. Even Mnementh stirred restlessly, his wings trembling as he fought every Instinct to dive, flaming, at the ancient menace. Yet he, too, watched as the leading Edge advanced southward, across the swamp, a gray rain of destruction.

Without needing a command, Mnementh landed just short of the Edge. And F’lar, fighting an inward revulsion strong that he was sure he’d vomit, turned back the nearest hummock, smoking with Thread penetration Grubs feverishly active, populated the concourse of the roots. As he held the hummock up, bloated grubs dropped to the ground and frantically burrowed into the earth. He dropped that clump, uprooted the nearest bush, baring the gray, twisted rootball. It also teemed with grub life that burrowed away from the sudden exposure to air and light. The leaves of the bush were still smoldering from Thread puncture.

Not quite certain why, F’lar knelt, pulled up another hummock and scooped up a clump of squirming grubs into the fingers of his riding glove. He twisted it tightly shut and secured it under his belt.

Then he mounted Mnementh and gave him the coordinates of the Masterherdsman’s Crafthall in Keroon, where the foothills that rose eventually to the massive heights of Benden range gently merged with the wide plains of Keroon Hold.

Masterherdsman Sograny, a tall, bald, leathery man so spare of flesh that his bones seemed held in position by his laced vest, tight hide pants and heavy boots, showed no pleasure in an unexpected visit from Benden’s Weyrleader.

F’lar had been met with punctilious courtesy, if some confusion, by crafters. Sograny, it seemed, was supervising the birth of a new mix of herdbeasts, the very swift plains type with the heavy-chested mountain one. A messenger led F’lar to the great barn. Considering the importance of the event, F’lar thought it odd that no one had left his tasks. He was led past neat cots of immaculately cleaned stone, well-tended gardens, past forcing sheds and equipment barns. F’lar thought of the absolute chaos that prevailed at the Smith’s, but then remembered what marvels that man accomplished.

“You’ve a problem for the Masterherdsman, have you, Weyrleader?” Sograny asked, giving F’lar a curt nod, his eyes on the laboring beast in the box stall. “How does that happen?”

The man’s attitude was so defensive that F’lar wondered what D’ram of Ista Weyr might have been doing to irritate him.

“Mastersmith Fandarel suggested that you would be able to advise me, Masterherdsman,” F’lar replied, no trace of levity in his manner and no lack of courtesy in his address.

“The Smithcrafter?” Sograny looked at F’lar with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Why?”

Now what could Fandarel have done to warrant the bad opinion of the Masterherdsman?

“Two anomalies have come to my attention, good Masterherdsman. The first, a clutch of fire-lizard eggs hatched in the vicinity of one of my riders and he was able to Impress the queen . . .”

Sograny’s eyes widened with startled disbelief.

“No man can catch a fire lizard!”

“Agreed, but he can Impress one. And certainly did. We believe that the fire lizards are directly related to the dragons.”

“That cannot be proved!” Sograny pulled himself straight up, his eyes darting toward his assistants who suddenly found tasks far from F’lar and the Masterherdsman.

“By inference, yes. Because the similar characteristics are obvious. Seven fire lizards were Impressed on the sands of a beach at Southern. One by my Wing-second, F’nor, Canth’s rider . . .”

“F’nor? The man who fought those two thieving weyrmen at the Smithcrafthall?”

F’lar swallowed his bile and nodded. That regrettable incident had hatched an unexpected brood of benefits.

“The fire lizards exhibit undeniable draconic traits. Unfortunately, one of them is to stay close to their Impressor or I’d have proof positive.”

Sograny only grunted, but he was suddenly receptive.

“I was hoping that you, as Masterherdsman, might know something about the fire lizards. Igen certainly abounds with them . . .”

Sograny was cutting him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

“No time to waste on flitterbys. Useless creatures. No crafter of mine would . . .”

“There is every indication that they may be of tremendous use to us. After all, dragons were bred from fire lizards.”

“Impossible!” Sograny stared at him, thin lips firmly denying such an improbability.

“Well, they weren’t bred up from watch-whers.”

“Man can alter size but only so far. He can, of course, breed the largest to the largest and improve on the original stock,” and Sograny gestured toward the long-legged cow. “But to breed a dragon from a fire lizard? Absolutely impossible.”

F’lar wasted no further time on that subject but took the glove from his belt and emptied the grubs into the other, gloved palm.

“These, sir. Have you seen such as these . . .”

Sograny’s reaction was immediate. With a cry of fear, he grabbed F’lar’s hand, tumbling the grubs to the stone of the barn. Yelling for agenothree, he stamped on the squirming grubs as if they were essence of evil.

“How could you – a dragonman – bring such filth into my dwellings?”

“Masterherdsman, control yourself!” F’lar snapped, grabbing the man and shaking him. “They devour Thread. Like sandworms. Like sandworms!”

Sograny was trembling beneath F’lar’s hands, staring at him. He shook his skull-like head and the wildness died from his eyes.

“Only flame can devour Thread, dragonman!”

“I told you,” F’lar said coldly, “that those grubs devoured Thread!”

Sograny glared at F’lar with considerable animus.

“They are an abomination. You waste my time with such nonsense.”

“My deep apologies,” F’lar said, with a curt bow. But his irony was wasted on the man. Sograny turned back to his laboring cow as though F’lar had never interrupted him.

F’lar strode off, pulling on his gloves, his forefinger coming into contact with the wet, slippery body of a grub.

“See the Masterherdsman, eh?” he muttered under his breath, waving aside the services of the guide as he left the breeding barn. A bellow from a herdbeast followed him out. “Yes, he breeds animals, but not ideas. Ideas might waste time, be useless.”

As he and Mnementh circled upward, F’lar wondered how much trouble D’ram was having with that old fool.