Dragonquest

CHAPTER X

Early Morning in Harpercrafthall at

Fort Hold

Afternoon at Telgar Hold

Robinton, Masterharper of Pern, adjusted his tunic, the rich green pile of the fabric pleasing to the touch as well as the eye. He turned sideways, to check the fit of the tunic across his shoulders. Masterweaver Zurg had compensated for his tendency to slouch, so the hem did not hike up. The gilded belt and the knife were just the proper dress accouterments.

Robinton grimaced at his reflection. “Belt knives!” He smoothed his hair behind his ears, then stepped back to check the pants. Mastertanner Belesdan had surpassed himself. The fellis dye had turned the soft wher-hide into a deep green the same shade as the tunic. The boots were a shade darker. They fit snug to his calf and foot.

Green! Robinton grinned to himself. Neither Zurg nor Belesdan had been in favor of that shade, though it was easily obtainable. About time we shed another ridiculous superstition, Robinton thought.

He glanced out of his window, checking the sun’s position. It was above the Fort range now. That meant mid-afternoon at Telgar Hold and the guests would be gathering. He’d been promised transport. T’ron of Fort Weyr had grudgingly acceded to that request, though it was a tradition of long standing that the Harper could request aid from any Weyr.

A dragon appeared in the northwest sky.

Robinton grabbed up his overcloak – the dress tunic would never keep out the full cold of between – his gloves and felted case that contained the best gitar. He’d hesitated about bringing it. Chad had a fine instrument at Telgar Hold, but fine wood and gut would not be chilled by those cold seconds of between as mere flesh would.

When he passed the window, he noticed a second dragon winging down, and was mildly surprised.

By the time he reached the small court of the Harpercrafthall, he gave a snort of amusement. A third dragon had appeared from due east.

Never around when you want ‘em, though. Robinton sighed, for it seemed the problems of the day had already begun, instead of waiting dutifully for him (as what trouble does?) at Telgar Hold, where he’d expected it.

Green, blue – and ah-ha – bronze dragon wings in the early morning sun.

“Sebell, Talmor, Brudegan, Tagetarl, into your fine rags. Hurry or I’ll skin you and use your lazy innards for strings,” Robinton called in a voice that projected into every room facing the Court.

Two heads popped out of an upper window of the apprentice barracks, two more at the journeyman’s Hold.

“Aye, sir.” “Coming, sir.” “In a moment!”

Yes, with four harpers of his own, and the three at Telgar Hold – Sebell played the best bass line, not to mention Chad the Telgar Harper improvising in the treble – they’d have a grand loud group. Robinton tossed his overcloak to his shoulder, forgetting that the pile of the green tunic might crush, and grinned sardonically at the wheeling dragons. He half-expected them all to wink out again at the discovery of this multiplicity.

He should pick the Telgar Weyr blue on the grounds that he appeared first. However, the green dragon came from Fort Weyr, to whom his Craft was weyrbound. Yet Benden Weyr did the honor of sending a bronze. Perhaps I should take the first to land, though they’re all taking their time about it, he thought.

He stepped out of the Court quadrangle to the fields beyond, since it was obvious that’s where the beasts were landing.

The bronze landed last, which canceled that method of impartial choice. The three riders met mid-field, some few dragonlengths from the disputed passenger. Each man began arguing his claim at once. When the bronze rider became the target of the other two, Robinton felt obliged to intervene.

“He’s weyrbound to Fort Weyr. We have the right,” said the green rider indignantly.

“He’s guest of Telgar Hold. Lord Holder Larad himself requested . . .”

The bronze rider (Robinton recognized him as N’ton, one of the first non-weyrbred to Impress a dragon at Benden Weyr Turns ago) appeared neither angry nor disconcerted.

“The good Masterharper will know the right of it,” and N’ton bowed graciously to Robinton.

The others gave him scarcely a glance but renewed their quarrel.

“Why, there’s no problem at all,” Robinton said in the firm, decisive tone he rarely employed and which was never contradicted.

The two wranglers fell silent and faced him, the one sullen, the other indignant.

“Still, it does the Craft honor that you vye to serve it,” and Robinton accorded the two dissidents an ironic bow. “Fortunately, I have need of three beasts. I’ve four more harpers to transport to Telgar Hold to grace the happy occasion.” He emphasized the adjective, noticing the glares that passed between blue and green riders. Young N’ton, though not weyrbred, had excellent manners.

“I was told to take you,” the Fort Weyr man said in a sour voice.

“And took such joy of the assignment, it has made my morning merry,” Robinton replied crisply. He saw the smug look on the blue rider’s face. “And while I appreciate Weyrleader R’mart’s thoughtfulness in spite of his recent – ah – problems at Telgar Hold, I shall ride the Benden Weyr dragon. For they do not grudge the Masterharper the prerogative.”

His craftsmen came racing out of the Hall, riding cloaks askew on their shoulders, fitting their instruments in felt wrappings as they came. Robinton gave each a cursory glance as they came to a ragged line in front of him, breathless, flushed and, thank the Shell, happy. He nodded toward Sebell’s pants, indicated that Talmor should adjust his twisted belt, approved Brudegan’s immaculate appearance, and murmured that Tagetarl was to smooth his wild hair.

“We’re ready, sirs,” Robinton announced and, giving a curt bow of his head to the other riders, turned on his heel to follow N’ton.

“I’ve half a mind – ” the green rider began.

“Obviously,” Robinton cut in, his voice as cold as between and as menacing as Thread. “Brudegan, Tagetarl, ride with him. Sebell, Talmor, on the green.”

Robinton watched as Brudegan, with no expression on his face, gestured politely to the shorter, green rider to precede them. Of all men on Pern, harpers feared few. Any one deliberately antagonizing them for no cause found himself the butt of a satirical tune which would be played around the land.

There were no further protests. And Robinton was rather pleased to notice that N’ton gave no indication that there’d been any display of ill nature.

Robinton on N’ton’s bronze arrived in the air, facing the cliff-palisade that was Telgar Hold. The swift river that had its source in the great striding eastern range of mountains had cut through the softer stone and made a deep incision that gradually widened until a series of high palisades flanked the green, wide Telgar valley. Telgar Hold was situated in one such soaring palisade, at the apex of a slightly triangular section of the cliffs. It faced south, with sides east and west and its hundred or so windows, on five distinct levels, must make pleasant and well lit rooms. All had the heavy bronze shutters which marked Telgar Hold for a wealthy one.

Today the three cliff faces of Telgar Hold were brilliant with the pennants of every minor Hold which had ever aligned its Blood with theirs. The Great Court was festooned with hundreds of flowering branches and giant fellis blooms, so that the air was heavy with mingled fragrances and appetizing kitchen odors. Guests must have been arriving for hours, to judge by the mass of long-legged runners among the pastured herdbeasts. Every room in old Telgar Hold ought to be filled this night and Robinton was glad that his rank gave him a sure place. A little crowded perhaps because he’d brought four more harpers. They might be superfluous; every Harper who could must have wangled his way in here today. Maybe it would be a happy occasion, after all.

I’ll concentrate on positive, happy thoughts, Robinton mused to himself, coining Fandarel’s phrase. “You’ll be staying on, N’ton?”

The young man grinned back at the Harper, but there was a serious shadow in his eyes. “Lioth and I have a sweep to ride, Master Robinton,” he said, leaning forward to slap his bronze affectionately on the neck. “But I did want to see Telgar Hold, so when Lord Asgenar asked me to oblige him by bringing you, I was glad of the chance.”

“I, too,” Robinton said in farewell, as he slid down the dragon’s shoulder. “My thanks to you, Lioth, for a smooth journey.”

The Harper has only to ask.

Startled, Robinton glanced up at N’ton, but the young man’s head was turned toward a party of brightly garbed young women who were walking up from the pasture.

Robinton looked at Lioth, whose opalescent eye gleamed at him an instant. Then the dragon spread his great wings. Hastily Robinton backed away, still not positive he’d heard the dragon. Yet there was no other explanation. Well, this day was certainly unfolding surprises!

“Sir?” inquired Brudegan respectfully.

“Ah, yes, lads.” He grinned at them. Talmor had never flown and the boy was a bit glassy in the eye. “Brudegan, you know the hall. Take them to the Harper’s room so they’ll know their way. And take my instrument, too. I’ll not need it until the banquet. Then, lads, you’re to mingle, play, talk, listen. You know the ditties I’ve been rehearsing. Use them.

You’ve heard the drum messages. Utilize them. Brudegan, take Sebell with you, it’s his first public performance. No, Sebell, you’d not be with us today if I’d no faith in your abilities. Talmor, watch that temper of yours. Tagetarl, wait until after the banquet to charm the girls. Remember, you’ll be a full Harper too soon to jeopardize a good Holding. All of you, mind the distilled wines.”

He left them so advised and went up the busy ramp into the Great Court, smiling and bowing to those he knew among the many Holders, Craftsmen and ladies passing to and fro.

Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, resplendent in dark yellow, and the bridegroom Asgenar, Lord of Lemos, in a brilliant midnight blue, stood by the great metal doors to the Hold’s Main Hall. The women of Telgar were in white with the exception of Larad’s half-sister, Famira, the bride. Her blond hair streamed to the hem of her traditional wedding dress of graduated shades of red.

Robinton stood for a moment to one side of the gate into the Court, slightly in the shadow of the right-hand tower, scanning the guests already making small groups around the decorated Courtyard. He spotted the Masterherdsman, Sograny, near the stable. The man oughtn’t to look as if he smelled something distasteful. Probably not the vicinity, but his neighbors. Sograny disapproved of wasting time. Masterweaver Zurg and his nimble wife moved constantly from group to group. Robinton wondered if they were inspecting fabric and fit. Hard to tell, for Weaver Zurg and spouse nodded and beamed at everyone with good-natured impartiality.

Masterminer Nigot was deep in talk with Mastertanner Belesden and the Masterfarmer Andemon, while their women formed a close conversation knot to one side. Lord Corman of Keroon was apparently lecturing the nine young men ringing him: sons, foster and blood undoubtedly, since most of them bore the old man’s nosy signature. They must be recently arrived for, at a signal from him, the boys all smartly turned on their heels and followed their parent, right up to the steps. Lord Raid of Benden was talking to his host and, seeing Corman approach, bowed and stepped away. Lord Sifer of Bitra gestured for Lord Raid to join him and a group of minor Holders conversing near the watchtower steps. Of the other Lord Holders, Groghe of Fort, Sangel of Boll, Meron of Nabol, Nessel of Crom, Robinton saw nothing. Dragons trumpeted on high and a half wing of them began to spiral down to the wide field where Robinton had landed.

Bronzes, blues – ah, and five golden queens – came to rest briefly. Discharging their passengers, most of them leaped skyward again, toward the fire ridges above the Hold.

Robinton made his way hastily to his host then, before the newest arrivals swarmed up the ramp to the Great Court.

There was a hearty cheerfulness about Lord Larad’s greeting that masked a deep inner anxiety. His eyes, blue and candid, restlessly scanned the Court. The Lord of Telgar was a handsome man though there was scant resemblance between him and his only full sibling, Kylara. Evidently it was Kylara who had inherited their sire’s appetites. Just as well.

“Well come, Master Harper, we all look forward to your entertaining songs,” Lord Larad said, according the Harper a deep bow.

“We shall play in tune with the times and the occasion, Lord Larad,” Robinton replied, grinning broadly at such bluntness. They both heard the ripple of music as the young harpers began to move among the guests.

The whoosh of great wings drew their eyes upward. The dragons flew across the sun, briefly shadowing the Court. All talk died for a moment, then renewed more loudly than before.

Robinton moved on, greeting Lord Larad’s first lady and true love, for he had no others besides her. The young Lord of Telgar, at least, was constant.

“Lord Asgenar, my felicitations. Lady Famira, may I wish you all happiness, to have and to hold.”

The girl blushed prettily, glancing shyly at Lord Asgenar. Her eyes were as blue as her half-brother’s. She had her hand on Asgenar’s arm, having known him a long time. Larad and Asgenar had been fosterlings at the Hold of Lord Corman of Keroon, though Larad had been elected earlier to his dignities than Asgenar. There’d be no problem with this wedding, although it remained for the Conclave of Lord Holders to ratify it, since the progeny of this marriage might one day Hold either Telgar or Lemos. A man cast his seed widely if he was a Lord Holder. He had many sons in the hope that one male of his Blood would train up strong enough to be acceptable to the Conclave, when the question of Succession arose. Not that that ancient custom was as scrupulously observed as it had been. The wise Lord extended fosterage to the Blooded children of other Lords, to gain support in Conclave as well as to insure his own progeny being well-fostered.

Robinton stepped quickly among the guests. To hear what he could, enter a conversation with an amusing story, climax another with a deft phrase. He helped himself to a handful of finger-sized meatrolls from the long tables set up near the kitchen entrance. He scooped up a mug of cider. They’d not sit to table until sunset. First the Lord Holders and the major Small Holders would have their Conclave. (He hoped that Chad had found a way for him to “attend” that meeting for he’d a notion that the discussion wouldn’t be limited to the Bloodlines of Telgar and Lemos Holds.)

So he wandered, every perception tuned high, every nuance, shrug, laugh, gesture and frown weighed and measured. He observed the groupings, who shifted between the lines of region, craft and rank. When he realized he had seen nothing of the Mastersmith Fandarel or his Craft-second, Terry, or, indeed, any smithcrafters, he began to wonder. Had Fandarel’s distance-writer been installed? He took a look down the side of the Hold and could see no posts as had been described to him. He chewed thoughtfully at a rough spot on his lower lip.

Voices and laughter seemed to have a strident edge. From his detached vantage point, he surveyed the Great Court, now so full it appeared as a moving carpet of solid bodies, here and there a tight knot of bent heads. As if – as if everyone were determined to enjoy themselves, frantically grasping pleasure . . .

Dragons trumpeted from the heights. Robinton grinned. They spoke in thirds, he noticed. Now, if a man could direct them – what an accompaniment to his Ballad.

“Good Masterharper, have you seen F’lar or Fandarel?” Lytol had come up to him, the young Lord Jaxom at his elbow.

“Not yet.”

Lytol frowned, suggested pointedly that Jaxom look for the young Bloods of Telgar Hold and drew Robinton further from the nearest guests.

“How do you think the Lords will react to Lord Meron of Nabol?”

“React to Meron?” Robinton snorted derisively. “By ignoring him, of course. Not that his opinion would influence the Conclave . . .”

“I don’t mean that. I mean his possession of a fire lizard – ” Lytol broke off as the Harper stared at him. “You didn’t hear? The messenger went through Ruatha Hold yesterday, bound for Fort Hold and your Crafthall.”

“He missed me or – was he free with his news?”

“To me, yes. I seem to attract confidences . . .”

“Fire lizard? What about them? I used to spend hours trying to catch one. Never did In fact I never heard of one being caught. How did Meron manage the trick?”

Lytol grimaced, the tic beginning in his cheek. “They can be Impressed. There always was that nursery tale that fire lizards are the ancestors of dragons.”

“And Meron of Nabol Impressed one?”

Lytol gave a mirthless laugh. “Unlikely, I grant you. The fire lizards exhibit a woeful lack of taste. But you can rest assured that Meron of Nabol would not waste time on fire lizards if they weren’t of use to him.”

Robinton considered this and then shrugged. “I don’t think you need be concerned. But how did Nabol get one? How can they be Impressed? I thought that was strictly a draconic trait.”

“How Lord Meron of Nabol acquired one is what bothers me the most,” Lytol said, glowering. “That Southern Weyrwoman, Kylara, brought him a whole clutch of eggs. Of course, they lost most in the Hatching, but the few that survived are making quite a stir in Nabol Hold. The messenger had seen one, and he was all bright-eyed in the telling. ‘A regular dragon in miniature’ he said, and he’s all for trying his luck on the sandy beaches in Southern Boll and Fort from the gleam in his eye.”

“ ‘A regular dragon in miniature,’ huh?” Robinton began to turn the significance of this around in his mind. He didn’t like the angles he saw.

There wasn’t a boy alive on Pern that hadn’t at one time dreamed of suddenly becoming acceptable to Dragonkind, of Impressing. Of having at his beck and call (little dreaming it was more the other way round) an immense creature, capable of going anywhere on Pern in a breath, of defeating all enemies with his flame-ridden breath (also fallacious as dragons never flamed anything but Thread wouldn’t knowingly harm a human). Life at the mountaintop Weyrs assumed a glamor all out of proportion to reality, yet dragonmen were not stooped by the heavy labor of the fields, orchards and craft benches; they were straight and tall, dressed in beautifully tanned wher-hides, and seemed somehow superior. Very few boys could become Lord Holders, unless they were properly Blooded. But there was always that tantalizing possibility that a dragonrider might choose you to go to the Weyr for an Impression. So generations of boys had vainly tried to catch a fire lizard, symbolic of that other yearning.

And a “regular miniature dragon” in the possession of a sly-faced underhanded malcontent like Meron of Nabol, who was sour about dragonmen anyway (with some justification in the matter of the Esvay valley against T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr), could be an embarrassment for F’lar at the least, and might disrupt their plans for the day at the worst.

“Well, if Kylara brought the fire-lizard eggs to Nabol Hold, F’lar will know,” Robinton told the worried Lord Warder. “They keep pretty close tabs on that woman.”

Lytol’s glower deepened. “I hope so. Meron of Nabol will certainly let no chance pass to irritate or embarrass F’lar. Have you seen F’lar?”

They both glanced around, hopefully. Then Robinton caught sight of a familiar grizzled head, bobbing toward himself and the Warder.

“Speaking of Benden, here’s old Lord Raid charging down on us. I’ve an idea what he wants and I will not sing that ancient lay about the Holders one more time. Excuse me, Lytol.”

Robinton slipped into the milling guests, working as rapidly away from the Benden Lord Holder as possible. He happened to dislike Lord Raid’s favorite ballad with a passion and, if Raid cornered him, he’d have no choice but to sing it. He felt no compunction about leaving Lytol exposed to Lord Raid’s pompous manner. Lytol enjoyed an unusual status with the Lord Holders. They weren’t certain how to treat a man who’d been a dragonrider, Weaverhallmaster, and was now Lord Warder of a Ruatha prospering under his guidance. He could deal with Raid.

The Masterharper halted at a point where he could look up at the cliff, trying to spot Ramoth or Mnementh among the dragons lining the edge.

Fire lizards? How was Meron going to use a fire lizard? Unless it was because Kylara, a Weyrwoman, had given him one. Yes. That was guaranteed to sow dissension. Undoubtedly every Lord Holder here would want one, so as to be equal to Meron. There couldn’t be enough eggs to go around. Meron would capitalize on forgotten yearnings, and chalk up one more irritation against dragonmen.

Robinton found that the meatrolls sat heavily in his stomach. Suddenly Brudegan detached himself from the crowd, bowing with a rueful grin to those he’d been serenading as if he were reluctantly answering his Master’s summons.

“The undercurrent is something fierce,” the journeyman said, pretending to tune his instrument. “Everyone’s so determined to have a good time. Odd, too. It’s not what they say, but how they say it that tips you off.” The boy flushed as Robinton nodded approvingly. “For instance, they refer to ‘that Weyrleader’ meaning their own weyrbound leader. ‘The Weyrleader’ always means F’lar of Benden. ‘The Weyrleader’ had understood. ‘The Weyrleader’ had tried. ‘She’ means Lessa. ‘Her’ means their own Weyrwoman. Interesting?”

“Fascinating. What’s the feeling about Threadfall?”

Brudegan bent his head to the gitar, twanged strings discordantly. He drew his hand across all eight in a dissonant chord that ran a chill down the Masterharper’s spine. Then Brudegan turned away with a gay song.

Robinton wished that F’lar and Lessa would arrive. He did see D’ram of Ista Weyr talking earnestly to Igen’s Weyrleader, G’narish. He liked that pair best of the Oldtimers, G’narish being young enough to change and D’ram essentially too honest to deny a truth when his nose was in it. Trouble was, he kept his nose inside Ista Weyr too much.

Neither man looked at ease, as much because there was an island of empty space around them – an obvious ostracization with the Court so crowded – as anything else. They greeted Robinton with grave relief.

“Such a happy occasion,” he said and, when they reacted with surprise, he hurried on. “Have you heard from F’lar?”

“Should we? There’s been more Thread?” G’narish asked, alarmed.

“Not that I know of.”

“Have you seen T’ron or T’kul about? We just arrived.”

“No, in fact, none of the western people seem to be here except Lord Warder Lytol of Ruatha.”

D’ram clenched his teeth with an audible snap.

“R’mart of Telgar can’t come,” the Oldtimer said. “He took a bad scoring.”

“I’d heard it was wicked at Crom Hold,” Robinton murmured, sympathetically. “No way to predict it’d fall there at that time, either.”

“I see Lord Nessel of Crom and his Holders are here in strength, though,” D’ram said, his voice bitter.

“He could scarcely stay away without insulting Lord Larad. How bad were the Telgar Weyr’s casualties? And if R’mart’s out of action, who’s leading?”

D’ram gave the Harper the distinct feeling that he’d asked an impertinent question, but G’narish answered easily.

“The wing-second, M’rek, took over but the Weyr is so badly under strength that D’ram and I talked it over and sent replacements. As it happens, we’ve enough weyrlings who’ve just started chewing stone so we’re wing-full.” G’narish glanced at the older dragonman as if he suddenly realized that he was discussing Weyr affairs with an outsider. He gave a shrug. “It makes more sense with Thread falling out of phase and the Crom Hold demoralized. We used to do it in the Oldtime when a Weyr was understrength. In fact, I flew with Benden one season as a weyrling.”

“I’m certain that Crom and Telgar Holds will appreciate your cooperation, Weyrleaders,” Robinton said. “Tell me, though, have you had any luck Impressing some fire lizards? Igen and Ista ought to be good hunting grounds.”

“Impressing? Fire lizards?” D’ram snorted with as much incredulity as Robinton had expressed earlier.

“That’d be a trick,” G’narish laughed. “Look, there’s Ramoth and Mnementh now.”

There was no mistaking the two beasts who were gliding to the fire heights. It was also unmistakable that the dragons already perched on the pinnacle moved aside to make room for them.

“Now, that’s the first time – ” G’narish muttered under his breath and stopped, because a sudden lull in the conversation had swept through the assembly, punctuated by audible hushings and scrapings as people turned to the Gate.

Robinton watched, with fond pride, as Lessa and F’lar mounted the steps to their hosts. They were both wearing the soft green of new leaves and the Harper wanted to applaud. However, he restrained himself and, signaling to the dragonmen, began to thread his way toward the new arrivals. Another dragon, closely followed by a bronze, swept in at dangerously low altitude. Gold wingtips showed above the outer wall of the Court and the wind from her backstrokes flung up dust, dirt and the skirts of the ladies nearest the Gate. There was a spate of screams and angry protests from those discommoded which settled into an ominous murmur.

Robinton, his height giving him an advantage, noticed Lord Larad hesitate in the act of bowing to Lessa. He saw Lord Asgenar and the ladies staring intently beyond. Irritated that he was missing something. Robinton pushed urgently on.

He broke through to the corner of the stairs, took the first four in two big strides and halted.

Resplendent in red, her golden hair unbound like a maiden’s, Kylara approached the Hall entrance, her smile composed of pure malice, not pleasure. Her right hand rested on the arm of Lord Meron of Nabol Hold, whose red tunic was slightly too orange in cast to blend with hers. Such details Robinton remembered at another time. Now all he saw were the two fire lizards, wings slightly extended for balance; a gold one on Kylara’s left arm, a bronze on Meron’s. “Regular miniature dragons,” beautiful, evoking a feeling of envy and desire in the Harper. He swallowed hastily, firmly suppressing such unbecoming emotions.

The murmur grew as more people became aware of the newest arrivals.

“By the First Shell, they’ve got fire lizards!” Lord Corman of Keroon Hold bellowed. He stepped out of the crowd into the aisle that had been opened to the Hall entrance, and stalked forward to have a good look.

The golden lizard screamed at his approach, and the little bronze hissed in warning. There was an irritatingly smug smirk on Meron’s face.

“Did you know Meron had one?” D’ram demanded in a harsh whisper at the Harper’s elbow. Robinton raised a hand to still further questions.

“And here come Kylara of Southern and Lord Meron of Nabol Hold with living examples of this small token of our best wishes for the happy couple,” F’lar’s voice rang out.

Utter silence fell as he and Lessa presented felt-wrapped round bundles to Lord Asgenar and his bride, Lady Famira.

“They are just now hard,” F’lar said in a loud voice that carried over the murmurings, “and must be kept in heated sands to crack, of course. They come to you through the generosity of one Toric, a seaholder at Southern Weyr, from a clutch he discovered only hours ago. Weyrleader T’bor brought them to me.”

Robinton glanced back at Kylara. Her flushed face now matched Meron’s tunic while he looked ready to kill. Lessa, smiling graciously, turned to Kylara.

“F’lar told me he’d seen your little pet . . .”

“Pet nothing!” Kylara blazed with anger. “She ate Thread yesterday at High Reaches . . .”

What else she’d had to say was lost as her words, “ate Thread,” “ate Thread,” ricocheted back through the assembly. The raucous screams of the two lizards added cacophony and Kylara and Meron had all they could do to soothe their creatures. To Robinton it was plain that whatever effect Meron of Nabol had planned had been foiled. He was not the only Lord Holder to own “a regular miniature dragon.”

Two minor Holders, from Nerat to judge by their devices, bore down on D’ram and G’narish.

“As you love your dragons, pretend you knew about the lizards,” Robinton said in an urgent undertone to the two. D’ram started to protest but the anxious Holders closed in with a barrage of eager questions on how to acquire a fire lizard just like Meron’s.

Recovering first, G’narish answered with more poise than Robinton thought he’d have. Pressing against the stone wall, the Harper inched his way up the stairs, to push in around the women clustered about Lord Asgenar, his lady Famira and F’lar.

“LORD HOLDERS, OF MAJOR AND MINOR DEGREE, PRESENT YOURSELVES FOR THE CONCLAVE, boomed out the Telgar Hold guard captain. A brass chorus of dragons echoed from the heights, satisfactorily stunning the guests into momentary silence.

The Captain repeated his summons and abjured the crowd to make room.

Lord Asgenar handed Famira his egg, murmuring something in her ear and pointing into the Hall. He stepped aside, gesturing for Lessa and Famira to pass inside. As well they did for the Holders were now massing up the stairs. Robinton tried to signal F’lar but the dragonman was struggling toward Kylara, against the current. She was arguing heatedly with Meron who gave an angry shrug, left her and began shoving roughly into the Hall, past more polite Holders.

There was another exodus, Robinton noticed, of Craftmasters who congregated near the kitchen.

F’lar needs the Harper.

Robinton glanced around him, wondering who had spoken amazed that so soft a voice had reached him over the gabbling. He was alerted by a dissonant twang of strings and turning his head unerringly toward the sound, spotted Brudegan up on the sentry walk with Chad, from the look of him. Had the resident Harper of Telgar Hold found a way to over hear the Conclave?

As Robinton changed his direction for the tower steps, a dragonrider confronted him.

“F’lar wants you, Masterharper.”

Robinton hesitated, looking back to the two harpers who were urgently signaling him to hurry.

Lessa listens.

“Did you speak?” Robinton demanded of the rider.

“Yes, sir. F’lar wants you to join him. It’s important.”

The Harper looked toward the dragons and Mnementh dipped his head up and down. Robinton shook his, trying to cope with another of this day’s astonishing shocks. A piercing whistle reached him from above.

He pursed his lips and gave the “go-ahead” sequence, adding in its different tempo the tune for “report later.”

Brudegan strummed an “understand” chord with which Chad apparently disagreed. Marks for the journeyman, Robinton thought, and whistled the strident trill for “comply.” He wished the harpers had as flexible a code as the one he’d developed for the Smith – and where was he?

That was one man easily spotted in a crowd but, as Robinton followed the dragonrider, he didn’t see a Smithcrafter anywhere. Of course, the impact of the distance-writer would be anticlimactic to the introduction of the lizards. Robinton felt sorry for the Smith, quietly perfecting an ingenious means of communication only to have it overshadowed by Thread-eating miniature dragons. Creatures who could be Impressed by non-weyrfolk. The average Pernese would be far more struck by a draconic substitute than by any mechanical miracle.

The dragonrider had led him to the watchtower to the right of the Gate. When Robinton looked back over his left shoulder, Brudegan and Chad were no longer visible on the sentry walk.

The lower floor of the tower was a single large room, the stone stairs which rose to the right side of the sentry walk were on the far wall. Sleeping furs were piled in one corner in readiness for such guests as might have to be lodged there that night. Two slit windows, facing each other on the long sides of the room, gave little light. G’narish, the Igen Weyrleader, was unshielding the glow basket in the ceiling as the Harper entered. Kylara was standing right under it, glaring furiously at T’bor.

“Yes, I went to Nabol. My queen lizard was there. And well I did, for Prideth saw Thread sign across the High Reaches Range!” She had everyone’s attention now. Her eyes gleamed, her chin lifted and, Robinton noted, the shrewish rasp left her voice. Kylara was a fine looking female, but there was a hard ruthlessness about her that repelled him.

“I flew instantly to T’kul.” Her face twisted with anger. “He’s no dragonman! He refused to believe me. Me! As if any Weyrwoman wouldn’t know the sign when she sees it. I doubt he’s even bothered with Sweepriders. He kept harping on the fact that Thread had fallen six days ago at Tillek Hold and couldn’t be falling this soon at High Reaches. So I told him about Falls in the western swamp and north Lemos Hold, and he still wouldn’t believe me.”

“Did the Weyr turn out in time?” F’lar interrupted her coldly.

“Of course,” and Kylara drew herself up, her posture tightening the dress against her full-bosomed body. “I had Prideth sound the alarm.” Her smile was malicious. “T’kul had to act. A queen can’t lie. And there isn’t a male dragon alive that will disobey one!”

F’lar inhaled sharply, gritting his teeth. T’kul of the High Reaches was a taciturn, cynical, tired man. However justified Kylara’s actions were, her methods lacked diplomacy. And she was contemporary weyrfolk. Oh, well, T’kul was a lost cause anyhow. F’lar glanced obliquely at D’ram and G’narish, to see what effect T’kul’s behavior had on them. Surely now . . . They looked strained.

“You’re a good Weyrwoman, Kylara, and you did well. Very well,” F’lar said with such conviction that she began to preen and her smile was a smirk of self-satisfaction. Then she stared at him.

“Well, what are you going to do about T’kul? We can’t permit him to endanger the world with that Oldtime attitude of his.”

F’lar waited, half-hoping that D’ram might speak up. If just one of the Oldtimers . . .

“It seems that the Dragonriders had better call a conclave too,” he said at length, aware of the tapping of Kylara’s foot and the eyes on him. “T’ron of Fort Weyr must hear of this. And perhaps we’d all better go on to Telgar Weyr for R’mart’s opinion.”

“Opinion?” demanded Kylara, infuriated by this apparent evasion. “You ought to ride out of here now, confront T’kul with flagrant negligence and . . .”

“And what, Kylara?” F’lar asked when she broke off.

“And – well – there must be something you can do!”

For a situation that had never before arisen? F’lar looked at D’ram and G’narish.

“You’ve got to do something,” she insisted, swinging toward the other men.

“The Weyrs are traditionally autonomous . . .”

“A fine excuse to hide behind, D’ram . . .”

“There can be no hiding now,” D’ram went on, his voice rough, his expression bleak. “Something will have to be done. By all of us. When T’ron comes.”

More temporizing? F’lar wondered. “Kylara,” he said aloud, “you mentioned your lizard eating Thread.” There was a lot more to be discussed in this matter than T’kul’s incredible behavior. “And may I inquire how you knew your lizard had returned to Nabol?”

“Prideth told me. She Hatched there so she returned to Nabol Hold when you frightened her at Southern.”

“You had her at High Reaches Weyr, though?”

“No. I told you. I saw Thread over the High Reach Range and went to T’kul. First! Once I’d roused the Weyr, I realized that there might have been Thread over Nabol so I went to check.”

“And told Meron about the premature Threadfall?”

“Of course.”

“Then?”

“I took the lizard back with me. I didn’t want to lose her again.” When F’lar ignored that jibe, she went on. “I picked up a flame thrower, so naturally I flew with Merika’s wing. Scant thanks I got for my help from that Weyrwoman.”

She was telling the truth, F’lar realized, for her emotions were very much in evidence.

When my lizard saw Thread falling, she seemed to go mad. I couldn’t control her. She flew right at a patch and – ate it.”

“Did you give her firestone?” D’ram asked, his eyes keen with real interest.

“I didn’t have any. Besides, I want her to mate,” and Kylara’s smile had a very odd twist to it as she stroked the lizard’s back. “She’ll burrow, too,” she added, extolling her creature’s abilities. “A ground crewman said he’d seen her enter one. Of course I didn’t know that until later.”

“Is the High Reaches Hold clear of Thread now?”

Kylara shrugged indifferently. “If they aren’t, you’ll hear.”

“How long did Threadfall continue after you saw it? Were you able to determine the leading Edge when you flew over to Nabol?”

“It lasted about three hours. Under, I’d say. That is, from the time the wings finally got there.” She gave a condescending smile. “As to the leading Edge, I’d say it must have been high up in the Range,” and she dared them to dispute it, hurrying on when no one did. “It’d fall on bare rock and snow there. I did sweep the Nabol side but Prideth saw no sign.”

“You did extremely well, Kylara, and we are exceedingly grateful to you,” F’lar said, and the other Leaders endorsed his commendation so firmly that Kylara smiled expansively, turning from one man to another, her eyes glittering with self-appreciation.

“We’ve had five Falls now,” F’lar went on gravely, glancing at the other Leaders, trying to see how far he could continue in his move to consolidate himself as their spokesman. T’kul’s defection had shaken D’ram badly. What T’ron’s reaction would be, F’lar didn’t try to guess, but if the Fort Weyrleader found himself in a minority of one against the other four Leaders, would he decide to act against T’kul, even if it did mean siding with F’lar? “At Tillek Hold, eight days ago; Upper Crom Hold, five; high Lemos Hold north, three; Southern far west, two; and now High Reaches Hold. Undoubtedly Thread fell in the Western Sea but there is no question that Falls are more frequent and increasing in scope. No point on Pern is safe. No Weyr can afford to relax its vigil to a traditional six-day margin.” He smiled grimly. “Tradition!”

D’ram looked about to argue, but F’lar caught and held his eyes until the man slowly nodded.

“That’s easy to say, but what are you going to do about T’kul? Or T’ron?” Kylara had just realized no one was paying her any attention. “He’s just as bad. He refuses to admit times have changed. Even when Mardra deliberately . . .”

There was a brisk knock on the door but it swung open instantly, to admit the giant frame of Fandarel.

“I was told you were here, F’lar, and we are ready.”

F’lar scrubbed at his face, regretting the diversion.

“The Lord Holders are in Conclave,” he began and the Smith grunted acknowledgment, “and there has been another unexpected development . . .”

Fandarel nodded toward the fire lizard on Kylara’s arm. “I was told about them. There are many ways to fight Thread, of course, but not all are efficient. The merits of such creatures remain to be seen.”

“The merits – ” Kylara began, ready to explode with outrage.

Robinton the Harper was beside her, whispering in her ear.

Grateful to Robinton, F’lar turned to attend the Smith, who had stepped to the door, obviously wanting the dragonmen to accompany him. F’lar was reluctant to see the distance-writer. It wouldn’t receive the attention it deserved from the Lords or the people or the riders. The distance-writer made so much more sense in this emergency than unreliable lizards. And yet, if they did eat Thread . . .

He paused on the threshold, looking back toward Kylara and the Harper. Robinton looked directly at him.

Almost as if the Harper read his mind, F’lar saw him smile winningly down at Kylara (though F’lar knew the man detested her).

“F’lar, do you think it’s wise for Kylara to go out into that mob! They’ll scare the lizard,” said the Harper.

“But I’m hungry – ” Kylara protested. “And there’s music – ” as the nearby thrum of a gitar was plainly audible.

“That sounds like Tagetarl,” Robinton said, with a bright grin. “I’ll call him in and send you choice victuals from the kitchen. Far better than struggling with that noisome rabble out there, I assure you.” He handed her to a chair with great courtesy, motioning behind his back to F’lar to leave.

As they stepped out into the bright sunlight, the crowd swirling noisily around them, F’lar saw the merry-faced young man, gitar in hand, who had answered the Harper’s whistle. Undoubtedly Robinton would be free to join them in a few moments if he read matters rightly. The young journeyman would definitely appeal to Kylara’s – ah – nature.

Fandarel had set up his equipment in the far corner of the Court, where the outside wall abutted the cliff-Hold, a dragonlength from the stairs. Three men were perched atop the wall, carefully handing something down to the group working on the apparatus. As the Weyrleaders followed Fandarel’s swath through the press of bodies (the fellis blossom fragrance had long since given way to other odors), F’lar was the object of many sidelong glances and broken conversations.

“You watch, you’ll see,” a young man in the colors of a minor Hold was saying in a carrying voice. “Those dragonmen won’t let us near a clutch . . .”

“The Lord Holders, you mean,” another said. “Fancy anything trusting that Nabolese. What? Oh. Great shells!”

Now, if everyone on Pern could possess a fire lizard, wondered F’lar, would that really solve the problem?

More dragons in the sky. He glanced up and recognized T’ron’s Fidranth and Mardra’s queen, Loranth. He sighed. He wanted to see what Fandarel planned with his distance-writer before he had to tackle T’ron.

“Mnementh, what is happening at the Conclave?”

Talk. They await the other two Lord Holders.

F’lar tried to see if the Fort Weyrleaders had brought the missing Lords Groghe of Fort and Sangel of South Boll. Those two wouldn’t take kindly to a Conclave adjudicating without them. But if Lord Groghe had heard about High Reaches Hold . . .

F’lar suppressed a shudder, trying to smile with sincere apologies as he edged past a group of small Holders who apparently couldn’t see him. As if recognizing the smithcrafters as neutral, the Weyrwomen had gathered in a wary group to the right of the mass of equipment which Fandarel’s people were setting up. They were pretending great interest, but even G’narish’s pretty Weyrmate, Nadira, looked troubled and she was a sweet-tempered lady. Bedella, representing Telgar Weyr, looked completely confused but she wasn’t bright.

Just then Mardra broke through the guests, demanding to know what was going on. Had T’kul and Merika arrived? Where were their Hosts? Modern Holds were certainly lacking in plain courtesy. She didn’t expect traditional ceremonies any more but . . .

At that moment, F’lar heard the clang of steel against steel and saw Lord Groghe of Fort pounding the Hall door with his knife handle, his heavy featured face suffused with anger. The slighter, frosty Sangel, Lord of South Boll, was scowling darkly behind him. The door opened a slit, widened slightly to allow the two Lord Holders to enter. Judging by their expression, it would take time and more talk before these two were pacified.

“How much more needs to be done?” asked F’lar as he joined the Smith. He tried to remember how the distance-writer had looked in the Hall. This collection of tubes and wire seemed much too big.

“We need only attach this wire so,” Fandarel replied, his huge fingers deftly fitting word to action, “and that one, here. Now. I place the arm in position over the roll and we shall send out a message to the Hall to be sure all is in order.” Fandarel beamed down at his instrument as fondly as any queen over a golden egg.

F’lar felt someone rather too close behind him and looked irritably over his shoulder to see Robinton’s intent face. The Harper gave him an abstracted smile and nodded for him to pay attention.

The Smith was delicately tapping out a code, the irregular lengths of red lines appearing on the gray paper as the needle moved.

“ ‘Hook-up completed,’ “ Robinton murmured in F’lar’s ear. “ ‘Efficiently and on time.’ “ Robinton chuckled through that translation. “ ‘Stand by.’ That’s the long and the short of it.” The Smith turned the switch to the receive position and looked expectantly at F’lar. At that moment, Mnementh gave a squall from the heights. He and all the dragons began to extend their wings. The mass movement blotted out the sun which was lowering over the Telgar Cliffs and sent shadows over the guests to still their chatter.

Groghe told the Lords that T’ron has found a distance-viewer at Fort. He has seen the Red Star through it. They are upset. Be warned, said Mnementh.

The doors of the Great Hall swung wide and the Lord Holders came striding out. One look at Lord Groghe’s face confirmed Mnementh’s report. The Lord Holders ranged themselves on the steps, in a solid front against the Dragonmen gathered in the corner. Lord Groghe had lifted his arm, pointed it accusingly at F’lar, when a disconcerting hiss split the pregnant silence.

“Look!” the Smith bellowed and all eyes followed his hand as the distance-writer began receiving a message.

“Igen Hold reports Thread falling. Transmission broken off mid-sentence.”

Robinton reported the sounds as they were printed, his voice growing hoarser and less confident with each word.

“What nonsense is this?” Lord Groghe demanded, his florid face brick-red as attention was diverted from his proposed announcement. “Thread fell in the High Reaches at noon yesterday. How could it fall at Igen Hold this evening? What the Shells is that contraption?”

“I don’t understand,” G’narish protested loudly, staring up at Lord Laudey of Igen Hold who stood in stunned horror on the steps. “I’ve Sweepriders on constant patrol . . .”

The dragons bugled on the heights just as a green burst into the air over the court, causing the crowd to scream and duck, scurrying to the walls for safety.

Threads fall at Igen southwest, came the message loud and clear. To be echoed by the Dragonriders in the court.

“Where are you going, F’lar?” bellowed Lord Groghe as the Benden Weyrleader followed G’narish’s plunge to the Gate. The air was full of dragon wings now, the screams of frightened women counterpointing the curses of men.

“To fight Thread at Igen, of course,” F’lar shouted back.

“Igen’s my problem,” G’narish cried, halting and wheeling toward F’lar, but there was gratitude, not rebuke in his surprised face.

“G’narish, wait! Where in Igen?” Lord Laudey was demanding. He pushed past the infuriated Lord Groghe to catch up with his Weyrleader.

“And Ista? Is the island in danger?” Lord Warbret wanted to know.

“We’ll go and see,” D’ram reassured him, taking his arm and urging him toward the Gate.

“Since when has Benden Weyr concerned itself with Igen and Ista?” T’ron planted himself squarely in F’lar’s way. The menace in his voice carried to the steps of the Hall. His belligerent stance, obstructing the way to the Gate, halted them all. “And rushed to Nabol’s aide”

F’lar returned his scowl. “Thread falls, dragonman. Igen and Ista fly winglight, with riders helping at Telgar Weyr. Should we feast when others fight?”

“Let Ista and Igen fend for themselves!”

Ramoth screamed on high. The other queens answered her. What she challenged no one knew, but she suddenly winked out. F’lar had no attention to spare to wonder that she’d gone between without Lessa riding for he saw T’ron’s hand on his belt knife.

“We can settle our difference of opinion later, T’ron. In private! Thread falls . . .”

The bronzes had begun to land outside the Gate, juggling to let as many land close as possible.

The green rider from Igen had directed his beast to perch on the Gate. He was repeatedly yelling his message to the static, tense group below.

T’ron would not stop. “Thread falls, huh, F’lar? Noble Benden to the rescue! And it’s not Benden’s concern.” He let out a raucous shout of derisive contempt.

“Enough, man!” D’ram stepped up to pull T’ron aside. He gestured sharply at the silent spectators.

But T’ron ignored the warning and shook him off so violently that the heavy-set D’ram staggered.

“I’ve had enough of Benden! Benden’s notions! Benden’s superiority! Benden’s altruism! And Benden’s Weyrleader . . .”

With that last snarled insult, T’ron launched himself toward F’lar, his drawn knife raised for a slashing blow.

As the ragged gasp of fear swept through the ranks of spectators, F’lar held his ground until there was no chance T’ron could change his direction. Then he ducked under the blade, yanking his own out of its ornamental sheath.

It was a new knife, a gift from Lessa. It had cut neither meat nor bread and must now be christened with the blood of a man. For this duel was to the death and its outcome could well decide the fate of Pern.

F’lar had sunk to a semicrouch, flexing his fingers around the hilt testing its balance. Too much depended on a single belt knife, a half-hand shorter than the blade in his opponent’s fingers. T’ron had the reach of him and the added advantage of being in wher-hide riding gear whereas F’lar wore flimsy cloth. His eyes never left T’ron as he faced the older man. F’lar was aware of the hot sun on the back of his neck, the hard stones under his feet, of the deathly hush of the great Court, of the smells of bruised fellis blooms, spilled wines and fried food, of sweat – and fear.

T’ron moved forward, amazingly light on his feet for a man of his size and age. F’lar let him come, pivoted as T’ron angled off to his left, a circling movement designed to place him off balance – a transparent maneuver. F’lar felt a quick surge of relief; if this were the measure of T’ron’s combat strategy . . .

With a bound the Oldtimer was on him, knife miraculously transferred to his left hand with a motion too quick to follow, his right arm coming over and down in a blow that struck F’lar’s wrist as he threw himself backward to avoid, by the thickness of a hair, the hissing stroke of the foot long blade. He backed, his arm half-numbed, aware of the shock that coursed through him like a drenching of icy water.

For a man blind with anger, T’ron was a shade too controlled for F’lar’s liking. What possessed the man to pick a quarrel – here and now? For T’ron had pushed this fight, deliberately baiting F’lar with that specious quibble. D’ram and G’narish had been relieved at his offer of help. So T’ron had wanted to fight. Why? Then suddenly, F’lar knew. T’ron had heard about T’kul’s flagrant negligence and knew that the other Oldtimers could not ignore or obliquely condone it. Not with F’lar of Benden likely to insist that T’kul step aside as Weyrleader of High Reaches. If T’ron could kill F’lar, he could control the others. And F’lar’s public deal would leave the modern Lord Holders without a sympathetic Weyrleader. The domination of Weyrs over Hold and Craft would continue unchallenged, and unchanged.

T’ron moved in, pressing the attack. F’lar backed, watching the center of the Oldtimer’s wher-hide-cased chest. Not the eyes, not the knife hand. The chest! That was the spot that telegraphed the next move most accurately. The words of old C’gan, the weyrling instructor, seven Turns dead, seemed to echo in F’lar’s mind. Only C’gan had never thought his training would prevent one Weyrleader from killing another, to save Pern in a duel before half the world.

F’lar shook his head sharply, rejecting the angry line his thoughts were taking. This wasn’t the way to survive, not with the odds against him.

He saw T’ron’s arm move suddenly, swayed back in automatic evasion, saw the opening, lunged . . .

The watchers gasped as the sound of torn fabric was clearly heard. The pain at his waist had been such a quick stab that F’lar had all but decided T’ron’s swipe was only a scratch when a wave of nausea swept him.

“Good try. But you’re just not fast enough, Oldtimer!” F’lar heard himself saying; felt his lips stretch into a smile he was far from feeling. He kept to the crouch, the belt pressing against his waist, but the torn fabric dangled, jerking as he breathed.

T’ron threw him a half-puzzled look, his eyes raking him, pausing at the hanging rag, flicking to the knife blade in his hand. It was clean, unstained. A second realization crossed T’ron’s face, even as he lunged again; F’lar knew that T’ron was shaken by the apparent failure of an attack he had counted on to injure badly.

F’lar pulled to one side, almost contemptuously avoiding the flashing blade, and then charged in with a series of lightning feints of his own, to test the Oldtimer’s reflexes and agility. There was no doubt T’ron needed to finish him off quickly – and F’lar hadn’t much time either, he knew, as he ignored the hot agony in his midriff.

“Yes, Oldtimer,” he said, forcing himself to breathe easily, keeping his words light, mocking. “Benden Weyr concerns itself with Ista and Igen. And the Holds of Nabol, and Crom, and Telgar, because Benden dragonmen have not forgotten that Thread burns anything and anyone it touches, Weyr and commoner alike. And if Benden Weyr has to stand alone against the fall of Thread, it will.”

He flung himself at T’ron, stabbing at the horny leather tunic, praying the knife was sharp enough to pierce it. He spun aside barely in time, the effort causing him to gasp in pain. Yet he made himself dance outside T’ron’s reach, made himself grin at the other’s sweaty, exertion-reddened face.

“Not fast enough, are you, T’ron? To kill Benden. Or muster for a Fall.”

T’ron’s breathing was ragged, a hoarse rasping. He came on, his knife arm lower. F’lar backed, keeping to a wary crouch, wondering if it was sweat he felt trickling down his belly or blood. If T’ron noticed . . .

“What’s wrong, T’ron? All that rich food and easy living beginning to tell? Or is it age. T’ron? Age creeping up on you. You’re four hundred and forty-five Turns old, you know. You can’t move fast enough any more, with the times, or against me.”

T’ron closed in, a guttural roar bursting from him. He sprang, with a semblance of his old vitality, aiming for the throat. F’lar’s knife hand flashed up, struck the attacking wrist aside, slashed downward at the other’s neck, where the wher-hide tunic had parted. A dragon screamed. T’ron’s right fist caught him below the belt. Agony lashed through him. He doubled over the man’s arm. Someone screamed a warning. With an unexpected reserve of energy, F’lar somehow managed to pull himself sharply up from that vulnerable position. His head rocked from the impact against T’ron’s descending knife, but it was miraculously deflected. Both hands on the hilt of his decorative blade, F’lar rammed it through wher-hide until it grated against the man’s ribs.

He staggered free, saw T’ron waver, his eyes bulging with shock, saw him step back, the jeweled hilt standing out beneath his ribs. T’ron’s mouth worked soundlessly. He fell heavily to his knees, then sagged slowly sideways to the stones.

The tableau held for what seemed hours to F’lar, desperately sucking breath into his bruised body, forcing himself to keep to his feet for he could not, could not collapse.

“Benden’s young, Fort. It’s our Turn. Now!” he managed to say. “And there’s Thread falling at Igen.” He swung himself around, facing the staring mass of eyes and mouths. “There’s Thread falling at Igen!”

He pivoted back, aware that he couldn’t fight in a torn dress tunic. T’ron had on wher-hide. He let himself down heavily on one knee and began to tug at T’ron’s belt, ignoring the blood that oozed out around the knife.

Someone screamed and beat at his hands. It was Mardra.

“You’ve killed him. Isn’t that enough? Leave him alone!”

F’lar stared up at her, frowning.

“He’s not dead. Fidranth hasn’t gone between.” It made him feel stronger somehow to know he hadn’t killed the man. “Get wine, someone. Call the physician!”

He got the belt loose and was pulling at the right sleeve when other hands began to help.

“I need it to fight in,” he muttered. A clean cloth was waved in his direction. He grabbed it and, holding his breath, jerked loose the knife. He looked at it a second and then cast it from him. It skittered across the stone, everyone jumping from its path. Someone handed him the tunic. He got up, struggling into it. T’ron was a heavier man; the tunic was too big. He was belting it tightly to him when he became aware again of the hushed, awed audience. He looked at the blur of expectant faces.

“Well? Do you support Benden?” he cried.

There was a further moment of stunned silence. The crowd’s multihead turned to the stairs where the Lord Holders stood.

“Those who don’t had better hide deep in their Holds!” cried Lord Larad of Telgar, stepping down on a level with Lord Groghe and Lord Sangel, his hand on his knife belt, his manner challenging.

“The Smiths support Benden Weyr!” Fandarel boomed out.

“The Harpers do!” Robinton’s baritone was answered by Chad’s tenor from the sentry walk.

“The Miners!”

“The Weavers!”

“The Tanners!”

The Lord Holders began to call out their names, loudly, as if by volume they could redeem themselves. A cheer rose from the guests to fall almost instantly to a hush as F’lar turned slowly to the other Weyrleaders.

“Ista!” D’ram’s cry was a fierce, almost defiant hiss, over-taken by G’narish’s exultant “Igen” and T’bor’s enthusiastic “Southern!”

“What can we do?” cried Lord Asgenar, striding to F’lar. “Can Lemos runners and groundmen help Igen Hold now?”

F’lar lost his immobility, tightened the belt one further notch, hoping the stricture would dull the pain.

“It’s your wedding day, man. Enjoy what you can of it. D’ram, we’ll follow you. Ramoth’s already called up the Benden wings. T’bor, bring up the Southern fighters. Every man and woman who can fit on the dragons!”

He was asking for more than complete mobilization of the fighters and T’bor hesitated.

“Lessa,” for she had her arms around him now. He pushed them gently to one side. “Assist Mardra. Robinton, I need your help. Let it be known,” and he raised his voice, harsh and steely enough to be heard throughout the listening Court. “Let it be known,” and he stared down at Mardra, “that any of Fort Weyr who do not care to follow Benden’s lead must go to Southern.” He looked away before she could protest. “And that applies to any craftsman, Lord Holder or commoner, as well as dragonfolk. There isn’t much Thread in Southern to worry you. And your indifference to a common menace will not endanger others.”

Lessa was trying to undo his belt. He caught her hands tightly, ignoring her gasp as his grip hurt.

“Where was Thread seen?” he yelled up to the Igen rider still perched atop the Gate Wall.

“South!” The man’s response was an anguished appeal. “Across the bay from Keroon Hold. Across the water.”

“How long ago?”

“I’ll take you there and then!”

The ripple of cheering grew as it spread back, as people were reminded that the Weyrs would go between time itself and catch Thread, erasing the interval of time lost in the duel.

Dragonriders were moving toward beasts who were impatiently keening outside the walls. Wher-hide tunics were being thrust at riders in dress clothes. Firestone sacks appeared and flame throwers were issued. Dragons ducked to accept riders, hopping awkwardly out of the way, to launch themselves skyward. The Igen green hovered aloft, joined by D’ram and his Weyrwoman Fanna, waiting for Mnementh.

“You can’t come, love,” F’lar told Lessa, confused that she was following him out to Mnementh. She could handle Mardra. She’d have to. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.

“Not till you’ve had this numbweed.” She glared up at him as fiercely as Mardra had an fumbled at his belt again. “You won’t last if you don’t. And Mnementh won’t take you up until I do.”

F’lar stared at her, saw Mnementh’s great eye gleaming at him and knew she meant it.

“But – he wouldn’t – ” he stammered.

“Oh, wouldn’t he?” flashed Lessa, but she had the belt loose, and he gasped as he felt the cold of the salve on the burning lips of the wound. “I can’t keep you from going. You’ve got to, I know. But I can keep you from killing yourself with such heroics.” He heard something rip, saw her tearing a sleeve from her new gown into bandage-length strips. “Well, I guess they’re right when they say green is an unlucky color. You certainly don’t get to wear it long.”

She quickly pressed the material against him, his wound already numbing. Deftly overlapping the outsized tunic, she tightened the wide belt to hold the bandage securely in place.

“Now, go. It’s shallow but long. Get the Threadfall under control and get back. I’ll do my part here.” She gave his hand a final grip and, picking up her skirts, half-ran up the ramp, as if she were too busy to watch him leave.

She’s worried. She’s proud. Let’s go.

As Mnementh wheeled smartly upward, F’lar heard the sound of music, gitars accompanying a ragged chorus. How like the Harper to have the appropriate music for this occasion, he thought.

Drummer, beat, and piper, blow.

Harper, strike, and soldier, go.

Free the flame and sear the grasses

Till the dawning Red Star passes.

Odd, thought F’lar, four hours later, as he and Mnementh returned to Telgar with the wings from Igen, it was over Telgar, seven Turns ago, that the massed Weyrs flew against the second Fall of Thread.

He stifled keen regret at the recollection of that triumphant day when the six Weyrs had been solidly in accord. And yet, the duel at Telgar Hold today had been as inevitable as Lessa’s flight backward in time to bring up the Oldtimers. There was a subtle symmetry, a balance of good and bad, a fateful compensation. (His side ached. He suppressed pain and fatigue. Mnementh would catch it and then he’d catch it from Lessa. Fine thing when a man’s dragon acted nursy. But the effects of that half-kettle of numbweed Lessa’d slathered on him were wearing off.) He watched as the wings circled to land. All the riders had been bidden back to Telgar.

So many things were coming back to their starting point: from fire lizards to dragons, a circle encompassing who knows how many thousands of Turns, to the inner circle of the Old Weyrs and Benden’s resurgence.

He hoped T’ron would live; he’d enough on his conscience. Though it might be better if T’ron . . . He refused to consider that, in spite of the fact that he knew it would avoid another problem. And yet, if Thread could fall in Southern to be eaten by those grubs . . .

He wanted very much to see that distance-viewer T’ron had discovered. He groaned with a mental distress. Fandarel! How could he face him? That distance-writer had worked. It had relayed a very crucial message – faster than dragon wings! No fault of the Smith’s that his finely extruded wire could be severed by hot Thread. Undoubtedly he would overcome that flaw in an efficient way – unless he’d thrown up his hands at the idea, what with being presented with a powerful, fully operative distance-viewer to compound the day’s insults. Of all the problems undoubtedly awaiting him, he dreaded Fandarel’s reproach the most.

Below, Dragonriders streamed into the Court illumined by hundreds of glow baskets, to be met and absorbed into the throng of guests. The aroma of roasted meats and succulent vegetables drifted to him on the night air, reminding him that hunger depresses any man’s spirits. He could hear laughter, shouts, music. Lord Asgenar’s wedding day would never be forgotten!

That Asgenar! Allied to Larad, a fosterling of Corman’s, he’d be of enormous assistance in executing what F’lar saw must be done among the Holder Lords.

Then he spotted the tiny figure in the gateway. Lessa! He told Mnementh to land.

About time, the bronze grumbled.

F’lar slapped his neck affectionately. The beast had known perfectly well why they’d been hovering. A man needed a few minutes to digest chaos and restore order to his thinking before he plunged into more confusions.

Mnementh agreed as he landed smoothly. He craned his neck around, his great eyes gleaming affectionately at his rider.

“Don’t worry about me, Mnementh!” F’lar murmured in gratitude and love, stroking the soft muzzle. There was a faint odor of firestone and smoke though they’d done little flaming. “Are you hungry?”

Not yet. Telgar feeds enough tonight. Mnementh launched himself toward the fire ridge above the Hold, where the perching dragons made black, regular crags against the darkening sky, their jeweled eyes gleaming down on the festal activities.

F’lar laughed aloud at Mnementh’s consideration. It was true that Lord Larad was stinting nothing, though his guest list had multiplied four-fold. Supplies had been flown in but Telgar Hold bore the brunt of it.

Lessa approached him with such slow steps that he wondered if something else had happened. He couldn’t see her face in the shadow but as she slipped into step beside him, he realized that she’d been respecting his mood. Her hand reached up to caress his cheek, lingering on the healing Thread score. She wouldn’t let him bend to kiss her.

“Come, love, I’ve fresh clothes and bandages for you.”

“Mnementh’s been telling on me?”

She nodded, still unusually subdued for Lessa.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she assured him hastily, smiling. “Ramoth said you were thinking hard.”

He squeezed her and the gesture pulled the muscles, making him wince.

“You’re a trial to me,” she said with mock exasperation and led him into the tower room.

“Kylara came back, didn’t she?”

“Oh, yes,” and there was an edge to Lessa’s voice as she added, “she and Meron are as inseparable as their lizards.”

She’d had a standing tub brought in, the water steaming invitingly. She insisted on bathing him while she reported what had happened while he’d fought Thread. He didn’t argue, it was too pleasant to relax under her ministrations, though her gentle hands sometimes reminded him of other occasions and . . .

T’ron had been taken directly to Southern, swathed in heavy felt. Mardra had contested F’lar’s authority to exile them but her protests fell on the deaf and determined front of Robinton, Larad, Fandarel, Lords Sangel and Groghe. They’d all accompanied Lessa and Kylara when Mardra was escorted back to Fort. Mardra had been certain she’d only to appeal to her weyrfolk to ensure her position as Weyrwoman. When she discovered that her arrogance and shrewishness had robbed her of all but a few adherents, she’d retired meekly to Southern with them.

“We nearly had a fight between Kylara and Mardra but Robinton intervened. Kylara was proclaiming herself Fort Weyrwoman.”

F’lar groaned.

“Don’t worry,” Lessa assured him, briskly kneading the tight muscles across his shoulders. “She changed her mind directly she learned that T’kul and his riders were leaving the High Reaches Weyr. It’s more logical for T’bor and the Southerners to take over that Weyr than Fort since most of the Fort riders are staying.”

“That puts Kylara too near Nabol for my peace of mind.”

“Yes, but that leaves the way clear for P’zar, Roth’s rider, to take over as Fort Weyrleader. He’s not strong but he’s well-liked and it won’t upset the Fort people as much. They’re relieved to be free of both T’ron and Mardra but we oughtn’t to press our luck too far.”

“N’ton’d be a good Wing-second there.”

“I thought of him so I asked P’zar if he’d object and he didn’t.”

F’lar shook his head at her tactics, then hissed, because she was loosening the old, dried numbweed.

“I’m not so sure but what I’d prefer the physician – ” she began.

“No!”

“He’d be discreet but I’ll warn you, all the dragons know.”

He stared at her in surprise. “I thought it odd there were so many dragons shadowing me and Mnementh. I don’t think we went between more than twice.”

“The dragons appreciate you, bronze rider,” Lessa said tartly, encircling him with clean, soft bandages.

“The Oldtimers, too?”

“Most of them. And more of their riders than I’d estimated. Only twenty riders and women followed Mardra, you know, from Fort. Of course,” and she grimaced, “most of T’kul’s people went. The fourteen who stayed are young riders, Impressed since the Weyr came forward. So there’ll be enough at Southern . . .”

“Southern is no longer our concern.”

She was in the act of handing him the fresh tunic and hesitated, the fabric gathered up in her hands. He took it from her, pulling on the sleeves, ducking his head into the opening, giving her time to absorb his dictum.

She sat slowly down on the bench, her forehead creased with a slight, worried frown.

He took her hands and kissed them. When she still did not speak, he stroked the hair which had escaped the braids.

“We have to make the break clean, Lessa. They can do no harm there to any but themselves. Some may decide to come back.”

“But they can perpetuate their grievances . . .”

“Lessa. how many queens went?”

“Loranth, the Weyr queen at High Reaches and the other two . . . Oh!”

“Yes. All old queens, well past their prime. I doubt Loranth will rise more than once. The clutches at High Reaches have produced only one queen since they came forward. And the young queen, Segrith, stayed, didn’t she, with Pilgra?”

Lessa nodded and suddenly her face cleared. She eyed him with growing exasperation. “Anyone would think you’ve been planning this for Turns.”

“Then anyone could call me a triple fool for underestimating T’ron, closing my mind to the facts in front of me and defying fortune. What’s the mood among Holders and crafters?”

“Relief,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I admit the laughter has a slightly hysterical tinge, but Lytol and Robinton were right. Pern will follow Benden . . .”

“Yes, until my first mistake!”

She grinned mischievously at him, waggling a finger under his nose. “Ah-ha, but you’re not allowed to make mistakes Benden. Not while . . .”

He caught her hand, pulling her into the crook of his arm, disregarding the stabbing pain at his waist for the triumph of her instant response, the surrender in her slender body. “Not while I have you.” The words came out in a whisper, and because he couldn’t express his gratitude to her, his pride in her, his joy of her any other way, he sought her lips, held them in a long, passionate kiss.

She gave a languorous sigh when he finally released her. He laughed down at her closed eyes, kissing them, too. She struggled to a sitting position and, with another reluctant sigh, rose determinedly to her feet.

“Yes, Pern will follow you, and your loyal advisers will keep you from making mistakes, but I do hope you’ve an answer for pop-eyed old Lord Groghe!”

“Answer for Groghe?”

“Yes,” and she gave him a stern look, “though I’m not surprised you’ve forgotten. He was going to demand that the dragonmen of Pern go directly to the Red Star and put an end to Thread forever.”

F’lar got slowly to his feet.

“I’ve always said that you solve one problem and five more appear from between.”

“Well, I think we’ve contrived to keep Groghe away from you tonight, but we promised to have a joint meeting of Hold and Craft at Benden Weyr tomorrow morning.”

“That’s a blessing.”

In the act of opening the door, he hesitated and groaned again.

“Isn’t the numbweed helping?”

“Not me. It’s Fandarel. Between fire lizards, Threads and T’ron, I can’t face him.”

“Oh, him!” Lessa pulled the door open, grinning up at her Weyrmate. “He’s already deep in plans to bury, coat or thicken those ungrateful wires. He’s planning installations with every Lord Holder and Craft. Wansor’s dancing like a sun-crazed wherry to get his hands on the distance-viewer, all the time wailing that he needn’t’ve dismantled the first apparatus.” She tucked her arm in his, lengthening her stride to match his. “The man who’s really put out is Robinton.”

“Robinton?”

“Yes. He’d composed the most marvelous ballad and teaching songs and now there’s no reason to play them.”

Whether Lessa had deliberately saved that until now, F’lar didn’t know, but they crossed the courtyard, laughing, though it hurt his side.

Their passage would have been noted anyhow, but their smiling faces subtly reassured the diners seated at the make-shift tables about the yard. And suddenly F’lar felt there was indeed something to celebrate.