Dragonquest

CHAPTER III

Morning Over Lemos Hold

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RAMOTH, Benden’s golden queen, was in the Hatching Ground when she got the green’s frantic summons from Lemos Hold.

Threads at Lemos. Thread falls at Lemos! Ramoth told every dragon and rider, her full-throated brassy bugle reverberating through the Bowl.

Men scrambled frantically from couch and bathing pool, upset tables and dropped tools before the first echo had rolled away. F’lar, idly watching the weyrlings drill, was dressed for fighting since the Weyr had expected to be at Lemos Hold late that day. Mnementh, his magnificent bronze, sunning himself on a ledge, swooped down at such a rate that he gouged a narrow trench in the sand of the floor with his left wingtip. F’lar was atop his neck and they were circling to the Eye Rock before Ramoth had had time to stamp out of the Hatching Cavern.

Thread at Lemos northeast, Mnementh reported, picking up the information from his mate Ramoth as she projected herself toward her weyr ledge for Lessa. Dragons were now streaming from every weyr opening, their riders struggling into fighting gear or securing bulging firesacks.

F’lar didn’t waste time wondering why Thread was falling hours ahead of schedule or northeast instead of southwest. He checked to see if there were enough riders assembled and aloft to make up a full low altitude wing. He hesitated long enough to have Mnementh order every weyrling to proceed immediately to Lemos to help fly ground crews to the area and then told his dragon to take the wing between.

Thread was indeed falling, a great sheet plummeting down toward the delicate new leafing hardwoods that were Lord Asgenar’s prime forestry project. Screaming, flaming, dragons broke out of between, skimming the spring forest to get quick bearings before they soared up to meet the attack.

Incredibly, F’lar believed they had actually managed to beat Thread to the forest. That green’s rider would have his choice of anything in F’lar’s power to give. The thought of Thread in those hardwood stands chilled the Weyrleader more thoroughly than an hour between.

A dragon screamed directly above F’lar. Even as he glanced upward to identify the wounded beast, both dragon and rider had gone between where the awful cold would shatter and break the entangling Threads before they could eat into membrane and flesh.

A casualty minutes into an attack? Even an attack that was so unpredictably early? F’lar winced.

Virianth, R’nor’s brown, Mnementh informed his rider as he soared in search of a target. He craned his sinuous neck around in a wide sweep, eyeing the forest lest Thread had actually started burrowing. Then, with a warning to his rider, he folded his wings and dove toward an especially thick patch, braking his descent with neck-snapping speed. As Mnementh belched fire, F’lar watched, grinning with intense satisfaction as the Thread curled into black dust and floated harmlessly to the forests below.

Virianth caught his wingtip, Mnementh said as he beat upward again. He’ll return. We need him. This Thread falls wrong.

“Wrong and early,” F’lar said gritting his teeth against the fierce wind of their ascent. If he hadn’t been in the custom of sending a messenger on to the Hold where Thread was due . . .

Mnementh gave him just enough warning to secure his hold as the great bronze veered suddenly toward a dense clump. The stench of the fiery breath all but choked F’lar. He flung up an arm to protect his face from the hot charred flecks of Thread. Then Mnementh was turning his head for another block of firestone before swooping again at dizzying speed after more Thread.

There was no further time for speculation; only action and reaction. Dive. Flame. Firestone for Mnementh to chew. Call a weyrling for another sack. Catch it deftly mid-air. Fly above the fighting wings to check the pattern of flying dragons. Gouts of flame blossoming across the sky. Sun glinting off green, blue, brown, bronze backs as dragons veered, soared, dove, flaming after Thread. He’d spot a beast going between, tense until he reappeared or Mnementh reported their retreat. Part of his mind kept track of the casualties, another traced the wing line, correcting it when the riders started to overlap or flew too wide a pattern. He was aware, too, of the golden triangle of the queens’ wing, far below, catching what Thread escaped from the upper levels.

By the time Thread had ceased to fall and the dragons began to spiral down to aid the Lemos Hold ground crews, F’lar almost resented Mnementh’s summary.

Nine minor brushes, four just wingtips; two bad lacings, Sorenth and Relth, and two face-burned riders.

Wingtip injuries were just plain bad judgment. Riders cutting it too fine. They weren’t riding competitions, they were fighting! F’lar ground his teeth . . .

Sorenth says they came out of between into a patch that should not have been there. The Threads are not falling right, the bronze said. That is what happened to Relth and T’gor.

That didn’t assuage F’lar’s frustration for he knew T’gor and R’mel as good riders.

How could Thread fall northeast in the morning when it wasn’t supposed to drop until evening and in the southwest? he wondered, savage with frustrated worry.

Automatically, F’lar started to ask Mnementh to have Canth fly close in. But then he remembered that F’nor was wounded and half a planet away in Southern Weyr. F’lar swore long and imaginatively, wishing T’reb of Fort Weyr immured between with Weyrleader T’ron fast beside him. Why did F’nor have to be absent at a time like this? It still rankled F’lar deeply that Fort’s Weyrleader had tried to shift the blame of the fight from his very guilty rider to Terry. Of all the specious, contrived, ridiculous contentions for T’ron to stand by!

Lamanth is flying well, the bronze dragon remarked, cutting into his rider’s thoughts.

F’lar was so surprised at the unexpected diversion that he glanced down to see the young queen.

“We’re lucky to have so many to fly today,” F’lar said, amused despite his other concerns by the bronze’s fatuous tone. Lamanth was the queen from Mnementh’s second mating with Ramoth.

Ramoth flies well too, for one so soon from the Hatching Ground. Thirty-eight eggs and another queen, Mnementh added with no modesty.

“We’re going to have to do something about that third queen.”

Mnementh rumbled about that. Ramoth disliked sharing the bronze dragons of her Weyr with too many queens, in spite of the fact that she would mate only with Mnementh. Many queens were the mark of virility in a bronze and it was natural for Mnementh to want to flaunt his prowess. Benden Weyr had to maintain more than one golden queen to placate the rest of the bronzes and to improve the breed in general, but three?

After the meeting the other night at Fort Weyr, F’lar hesitated to suggest to any of the other Weyrleaders that he’d be glad of a home for the new queen: They’d probably contrive it to be bad management of Ramoth or coddling of Lessa. Still, Benden queens were bigger than Old-timer queens, just as modern bronzes were bigger, too. Maybe R’mart at Telgar Weyr wouldn’t take offense. Or G’narish? F’lar couldn’t think how many queens G’narish had at Igen Weyr. He grinned to himself, thinking of the expression of T’ron’s face when he heard Benden was giving away a queen dragon.

“Benden’s known for its generosity, but what’s behind such a maneuver?” T’ron would say. “It’s not traditional.”

But it was. There were precedents. F’lar would far rather cope with T’ron’s snide remarks than Ramoth’s temper. He glanced down, sighting the gleaming triangle of the queens’ wing, with Ramoth easily sweeping along, the younger beasts working hard to keep up with her.

Threads dropping out of pattern! F’lar gritted his teeth. Worse, out of a pattern which he’d so painstakingly researched from hundreds of disintegrating Record skins in his efforts seven Turns ago to prepare his ill-protected planet.

Patterns, F’lar thought bitterly, which the Oldtimers had enthusiastically acclaimed and used – though that was scarcely traditional. Just useful

Now how could Thread, which had no mind, no intelligence at all, deviate from patterns it had followed to the split second for over seven Turns? How could it change time and place overnight? The last Fall in Benden’s Weyr jurisdiction had been on time and over upper Benden Hold as expected.

Could he possibly have misread the timetables? F’lar thought back, but the carefully drawn maps were clear in his mind and, if he had made an error, Lessa would have caught it.

He’d check, double check, as soon as he returned to the Weyr. In the meantime, he’d better make sure they had cleared the Fall from Edge to Edge. He directed Mnementh to find Asgenar, Lord Holder of Lemos.

Mnementh obediently turned out of the leisurely glide and dropped swiftly. F’lar could thank good fortune that it was Lord Asgenar of Lemos to whom he must explain rather than Lord Sifer of Bitra Hold or Lord Raid of Benden Hold. The former would rant against the injustice and the latter would contrive to make a premature arrival of Thread a personal insult to him by dragonmen. Sometimes the Lords Raid and Sifer tried F’lar’s patience. True, those three Holds, Benden, Bitra and Lemos, had conscientiously tithed to support Benden Weyr when it was the sole dragonweyr of Pern. But Lord Raid and Lord Sifer had an unpleasant habit of reminding Benden Weyr riders of their loyalty at every opportunity. Gratitude is an ill-fitting tunic that can chafe and smell if worn too long.

Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold, on the other hand, was young and had been confirmed in his honors by the Lord Holders’ Conclave only five Turns ago. His attitude toward the Weyr which protected his Holdlands from Thread was refreshingly untainted by invidious reminders of past services.

Mnementh glided toward the expanse of the Great Lake which separated Lemos Hold from upper Telgar Hold. The Threads’ advance edge had just missed the verdant softwoods that surrounded the northern shores. Mnementh circled down, causing F’lar to lean into the great neck, grasping the fighting straps firmly. Despite his weariness and worry, he felt the sharp surge of elation which always gripped him when he flew the huge bronze dragon; that curious merging of himself with the beast, against air and wind, so that he was not only F’lar, Weyrleader of Benden, but somehow Mnementh. immensely powerful, magnificently free.

On a rise overlooking the broad meadow that swept down to the Great Lake, F’lar spotted the green dragon. Lemos’ Lord Holder, Asgenar, would be near her. F’lar smiled sardonically at the sight. Let the Oldtimers disapprove, let them mutter uneasily when F’lar put non-weyrfolk on dragonback, but if F’lar had not, Thread would have fallen unseen over those hardwoods.

Trees! Another bone of contention between Weyr and Hold, with F’lar staunchly upholding the Lords’ position. Four hundred Turns ago, such timber stands had not existed, were not permitted to grow. Too much living green to protect. Well, the Oldtimers were eager enough to own products of wood, overloading Fandarel’s woodcraftsman, Bendarek, with their demands. On the other hand, they wouldn’t permit the formation of a new Crafthall under Bendarek. Probably because, F’lar thought bitterly, Bendarek wanted to stay near the hardwoods of Lemos, and that would give Benden Weyr a Crafthall in its jurisdiction. By the Egg, the Oldtimers were almost more trouble than they were worth!

Mnementh landed with sweeping backstrokes that flattened the thick meadow grass. F’lar slid down the bronze’s neck to join Lord Asgenar while Mnementh trumpeted approval to the green dragon and F’rad, his rider.

F’rad wants to warn you that Asgenar . . .

“Not much gets through Benden’s wings,” Asgenar was saying by way of greeting so that Mnementh didn’t finish his thought. The young man was wiping soot and sweat from his face for he was one Lord who directed his ground crews personally instead of staying comfortably in his main Hold. “Even if Threads have begun to deviate. How do you account for all these recent variations?”

Variations?” F’lar repeated the word, feeling stupid because he somehow realized that Asgenar was not referring just to this day’s unusual occurrence.

“Yes! And here we thought your timetables were the last word. To be relied on forever, especially since they were checked and approved by the Oldtimers.” Asgenar gave F’lar a sly look. “Oh, I’m not faulting you, F’lar. You’ve always been open in our dealings. I count myself lucky to be weyrbound to you. A man knows where he stands with Benden Weyr. My brother-in-law elect? Lord Larad, has had problems with T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr, you know. And since those premature falls at Tillek and Upper Crom, he’s got a thorough watch system set up.” Asgenar paused, suddenly aware of F’lar’s tense silence. “I do not presume to criticize weyrfolk, F’lar,” he said in a more formal tone, “but rumor can outfly a dragon and naturally I heard about the others. I can appreciate the Weyrs not wishing to alarm commoners but – well – a little forewarning would be only courteous.”

“There was no way of predicting today’s fall,” F’lar said slowly, but his mind was turning so rapidly that he felt sick. Why had nothing been said to him? R’mart of Telgar Weyr hadn’t been at the meeting about T’reb’s transgressions. Could R’mart have been busy fighting Thread at that time? As for T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr imparting any information, particularly news that might show him in a bad light, that one wouldn’t give coordinates to save a rider’s life.

No, they’d have had good reason not to mention premature falls to F’lar that night. If T’kul had confided in anyone. But why hadn’t R’mart let them know?

“But Benden Weyr’s not caught sleeping. Once is all we’d need in those forests, huh, F’lar?” Asgenar was saying, his eyes scanning the spongewoods possessively.

“Yes. All we’d need. What’s the report from the leading Edge of this Fall? Have you runners in yet?”

“Your queens’ wing reported it safe two hours past.” Asgenar grinned and rocked back and forth on his heels, his confidence not a bit jarred by today’s unpredicted event. F’lar envied him.

Again the bronze rider thanked good fortune that he had Lord Asgenar to deal with this morning instead of punctilious Raid or suspicious Lord Sifer. He devoutly hoped that the young Lord Holder would not find his trust misplaced. But the question haunted him: how could Threads change so?

Both Weyrleader and Lord Holder froze as they watched a blue dragon hover attentively above a stand of trees to the northeast. When the beast flew on, Asgenar turned to F’lar with troubled eyes.

“Do you think these odd falls will mean that those forests must be razed?”

“You know my views on wood, Asgenar. It’s too valuable a commodity, too versatile, to sacrifice needlessly.”

“But it takes every dragon to protect . . .”

“Are you for or against?” F’lar asked with mild amusement. He gripped Asgenar’s shoulder. “Instruct your foresters to keep constant watch. Their vigilance is essential.”

“Then you don’t know the pattern in the Thread shifts?”

F’lar shook his head slowly, unwilling to perjure himself to this man. “I’ll leave the long-eyed F’rad with you.”

A wide smile broke the thin troubled face of the Lord Holder.

“I couldn’t ask, but it’s a relief. I shan’t abuse the privilege.”

F’lar glanced at him sharply. “Why should you?”

Asgenar gave him a wry smile. “That’s what the Oldtimers carp about, isn’t it? And instant transportation to any place on Pern is a temptation.”

F’lar laughed, remembering that Asgenar, Lord of Lemos, was to take Famira, the youngest sister of Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, to wife. While the Telgar lands marched the boundaries of Lemos, the Holds were separated by deep forest and several ranges of steep rocky mountains.

Three dragons appeared and circled above them, wingriders reporting on the ground activities. Nine infestations had been sighted and controlled with minimum loss of property. Sweepriders had reported that the mid-Fall area was clear. F’lar dismissed them. A runner came loping up the meadow to his Lord Holder, carefully keeping several dragonlengths between himself and the two beasts. For all that every Pernese knew the dragons would harm no human, many would never lose their fearfulness. Dragons were confused by this distrust so that F’lar strolled casually to his bronze and scratched the left eye ridge affectionately until Mnementh allowed one lid to droop in pleasure over the gleaming opalescent eye.

The runner had come from afar, managing to gasp out his reassuring message before he collapsed on the ground, his chest heaving with the effort to fill his starved lungs. Asgenar stripped off his tunic and covered the man to prevent his chilling and made the runner drink from his own flask

“The two infestations on the south slope are char!” Asgenar reported to the Weyrleader as he rejoined him. “That means the hardwood stands are safe.” Asgenar’s relief was so great that he took a swig on the bottle himself. Then hastily offered it to the dragonrider. When F’lar politely refused, he went on, “We may have another hard winter and my people will need that wood. Cromcoal costs!”

F’lar nodded. Free provision of fuelwood meant a tremendous saving to the average holder, though not every Lord saw it in this aspect. Lord Meron of Nabol Hold, for instance refused to let his commoners chop fuelwood, forcing them to pay the high rates for Cromcoal, increasing his profit at their expense.

“That runner came from the south slope? He’s fast.”

“My forest men are the best in all Pern. Meron of Nabol has twice tried to lure that man from me.”

“And?”

Lord Asgenar chuckled. “Who trusts Meron? My man had heard tales of how that Lord treats his people.” He seemed about to add another thought but cleared his throat instead, glancing nervously away as if catching a glimpse of something in the woods.

“What all Pern needs is an efficient means of communication,” remarked the dragonman, his eyes on the gasping runner.

“Efficient?” and Asgenar laughed aloud. “Is all Pern infected with Fandarel’s disease?”

“Pern benefits by such an illness.” F’lar must contact the Mastersmith the moment he got back to the Weyr. Pern needed the genius of the giant Fandarel now more than ever.

“Yes, but will we recover from the feverish urge for perfection?” Asgenar’s smile faded as he added, in a deceptively casual fashion, “Have you heard whether a decision has been reached about Bendarek’s guild?”

“None yet.”

“I do not insist that a Craftmaster’s Hall be sited in Lemos – ” Asgenar began, urgent and serious.

F’lar held up his hand. “Nor I, though I have trouble convincing others of my sincerity. Lemos Hold has the biggest stands of wood, Bendarek needs to be near his best source of supply, and he comes of Lemos!”

“Every single objection raised has been ridiculous,” Asgenar replied, his gray eyes sparkling with anger. “You know as well as I that a Craftmaster owes no allegiance to a Lord Holder. Bendarek’s as unprejudiced as Fandarel as far as loyalty to anything but his craft is concerned. All the man thinks of is wood and pulp and those new leaves or sheets or what-you-ma-callums he’s mucking about with.”

“I know. I know, Asgenar. Larad of Telgar Hold and Corman of Keroon Hold side with you or so they’ve assured me.”

“When the Lord Holders meet in Conclave at Telgar Hold, I’m going to speak out. Lord Raid and Sifer will back me, if only because we’re weyrbound.”

“It isn’t the Lords or Weyrleaders who must make this decision,” F’lar reminded the resolute young Lord. “It’s the other Craftmasters. That’s been my thought since Fandarel first proposed a new craft designation.”

“Then what’s holding matters up? All the Mastercraftsmen will be at the wedding at Telgar Hold. Let’s settle it once and for all and let Bendarek alone.” Asgenar threw his arms wide with frustration. “We need Bendarek settled, we need what he’s been producing and he can’t keep his mind on important work with all this shifting and shouting.”

“Any proposal that smacks of change right now,” (especially now, F’lar added to himself, thinking of this Threadfall.) “is going to alarm certain Weyrleaders and Lord Holders. Sometimes I think that only the Crafts constantly look for change, are interested and flexible enough to judge what is improvement or progressive. The Lord Holders and the – ” F’lar broke off.

Fortunately another runner was approaching from the north, his legs pumping strongly. He came straight past the green dragon, right up to his Lord.

“Sir, the northern section is clear. Three burrows have been burned out. All is secure.”

“Good man. Well run.”

The man, flushed with praise and effort, saluted the Weyrleader and his Lord. Then, breathing deeply but without labor, he strode over to the prone messenger and began massaging his legs.

Asgenar smiled at F’lar. “There’s no point in our rehearsing arguments. We are basically in agreement. If we could just make those others see!”

Mnementh rumbled that the wings were reporting an all-clear. He so pointedly extended his foreleg that Asgenar laughed.

“That does it,” he said. “Any idea how soon before we have another Fall?”

F’lar shook his head. “F’rad is here. You ought to have seven days free. You’ll hear from me as soon as we’ve definite news.”

“You’ll be at Telgar in six days, won’t you?”

“Or Lessa will have my ears!”

“My regards to your lady.”

Mnementh bore him upward in an elliptical course that allowed them to make one final check of the forest lands. Wisps of smoke curled to the north and farther to the east, but Mnementh seemed unconcerned. F’lar told him to go between. The utter cold of that dimension painfully irritated the Thread scores on his face. Then they were above Benden Weyr. Mnementh trumpeted his return and hung, all but motionless, until he heard the booming response of Ramoth. At that instant, Lessa appeared on the ledge of the weyr, her slight stature diminished still further by distance. As Mnementh glided in, she descended the long flight of stairs in much the same headlong fashion for which they criticized their weyrling son, Felessan.

Reprimands were not likely to break Lessa of that habit either, thought F’lar. Then he noticed what Lessa had in her hands and rounded angrily on Mnementh. “I’m barely touched and you babble on me like a weyrling!”

Mnementh was not the least bit abashed as he backwinged to land lightly by the Feeding Ground. Thread hurts.

“I don’t want Lessa upset over nothing!”

I don’t want Ramoth angry over anything!

F’lar slid from the bronze’s neck, concealing the twinges he felt as the gritty wind from the Feeding Grounds aggravated the cold-seared lacerations. This was one of those times when the double bond between riders and dragons became a serious disadvantage. Particularly when Mnementh took the initiative, not generally a draconic characteristic.

Mnementh gave an awkward half jump upward, clearing the way for Lessa. She hadn’t changed from wher-hide riding clothes and looked younger than any Weyrwoman ought as she ran towards them, her plaited hair bouncing behind her. Although neither motherhood nor seven turns of security had added flesh to her small-boned body, there was a subtle roundness to breast and hip, and that certain look in her great gray eyes that F’lar knew was for him alone.

“And you complain about the timing of other riders,” she said, gasping, as she came to an abrupt stop at his side. Before he could protest the insignificance of his injuries, she was smearing numbweed on the burns. “I’ll have to wash them once the feeling’s gone. Can’t you duck ash yet? Virianth will be all right but Sorenth and Relth took awful lacings. I do wish that glass craftsman of Fandarel’s – Wansor’s his name, isn’t it? – would complete those eyeguards he’s been blathering about. Manora thinks she can save P’ratan’s good looks but we’ll have to wait and see about his eye.” She paused to take a deep breath. “Which is just as well because if he doesn’t stop raiding Holds for new lovers, we won’t be able to foster all the babies. Those holdbred girls are convinced it’s evil to abort.” She stopped short, set her lips in the thin line which F’lar had finally catalogued as Lessa veering away from a painful subject.

“Lessa! No, don’t look away.” He forced her head up so she had to meet his eyes. She who couldn’t conceive must find it hard, too, to help terminate unwanted pregnancies. Would she never stop yearning for another child? How could she forget she had nearly died with Felessan? He’d been relieved that she had never quickened again. The thought of losing Lessa was not even to be thought. “Riding between so much makes it impossible for a Weyrwoman to carry to term.”

“It doesn’t seem to affect Kylara,” Lessa said with bitter resentment. She had turned away, watching Mnementh rend a fat buck with such an intense expression in her eyes that F’lar had no difficulty guessing that she’d prefer Kylara thus rendered.

“That one!” F’lar said with a sharp laugh. “Dear heart, if you must model yourself after Kylara to bear children Weyrwoman, I prefer you barren!”

“We’ve more important things to discuss than her,” Lessa said, turning to him in a complete change of mood. “What did Lord Asgenar say about the Threadfall? I’d have joined you in the meadow, but Ramoth’s got the notion she can’t leave her clutch without someone spying on them. Oh, I sent messengers out to the other Weyrs to tell them what’s happened here. They ought to know and be on their guard.”

“It would’ve been courteous of them to have apprised us first,” F’lar said so angrily that Lessa glanced up at him startled. He told her then what the Lemos Lord Holder had said on the mountain meadow.

“And Asgenar assumed that we all knew? That it was simply a matter of changing the timetables?” Shock faded from her face and her eyes narrowed, flashing with indignation. “I would I had never gone back to get those Old-timers. You’d have figured out a way for us to cope.”

“You give me entirely too much credit, love.” He hugged her for her loyalty. “However, the Oldtimers are here and we’ve got to deal with them.”

“Indeed we will. We’ll bring them up to date if . . .”

“Lessa,” and F’lar gave her a little shake, his pessimism dispersed by the vehemence of her response and the transparency of her rapid calculations on how to bring about such changes. “You can’t change a watch-wher into a dragon, my love . . .”

Who’d want to? demanded Mnementh from the Feeding Ground, his appetite sated.

The bronze dragon’s tart observation elicited a giggle from Lessa. F’lar hugged her gratefully.

“Well, it’s nothing we can’t cope with,” she said firmly, allowing him to tuck her under his shoulder as they walked back to the weyr. “And it’s nothing I don’t expect from that T’kul of the ever-so-superior High Reaches. But R’mart of Telgar Weyr?”

“How long have the messengers been gone?”

Lessa frowned up at the bright midmorning sky. “Only just. I wanted to get any last details from the Sweepriders.”

“I’m as hungry as Mnementh. Feed me, woman.”

The bronze dragon had glided up to the ledge to settle in his accustomed spot just as a commotion started in the tunnel. He extended his wings to flight position, neck craned toward the one land entrance to the dragonweyr.

“It’s the wine train from Benden, silly,” Lessa told him, chuckling as Mnementh gave voice to a loud brassy grumble and began to arrange himself again, completely disinterested in wine trains “Now don’t tell Robinton the new wine’s in, F’lar. It has to settle first, you know.”

“And why would I be telling Robinton anything?” F’lar demanded, wondering how Lessa knew that he had only just started to think of the Masterharper himself.

“There has never been a crisis before us when you haven’t sent for the Masterharper and the Mastersmith.” She sighed deeply. “If we only had such cooperation from our own kind.” Her body went rigid under his arm. “Here comes Fidranth and he says that T’ron’s very agitated.”

“T’ron’s agitated?” F’lar’s anger welled up instantly.

“That’s what I said,” Lessa replied, freeing herself and taking the steps two at a time. “I’ll order you food.” She halted abruptly, turning to say over her shoulder, “Keep your temper. I suspect T’kul never told anyone. He’s never forgiven T’ron for talking him into coming forward, you know.”

F’lar waited beside Mnementh as Fidranth circled smartly into the weyr. From the Hatching Cavern came Ramoth’s crotchety challenge. Mnementh answered her soothingly that the intruder was only Fidranth and no threat. At least not to her clutch. Then the bronze rolled one scintillating eye toward his rider. The exchange, so like one between himself and Lessa, drained anger from F’lar. Which was as well, for T’ron’s opening remarks were scarcely diplomatic.

“I found it! I found what you forgot to incorporate in those so-called infallible timetables of yours!”

“You’ve found what, T’ron?” F’lar asked, tightly controlling his temper. If T’ron had found anything that would be of help, he could not antagonize the man.

Mnementh had courteously stepped aside to permit Fidranth landing room, but with two huge bronze bodies there was so little space that T’ron slid in front of the Benden Weyrleader, waving a portion of a Record hide right under his nose.

“Here’s proof your timetables didn’t include every scrap of information from our Records!”

“You’ve never questioned them before, T’ron,” F’lar reminded the exercised man, speaking evenly.

“Don’t hedge with me, F’lar. You just sent a messenger with word that Thread was falling out of pattern.”

“And I’d have appreciated knowing that Thread had fallen out of pattern over Tillek and High Crom in the past few days!”

The look of shock and horror on T’ron’s face was too genuine to be faked.

“You’d do better to listen to what commoners say, T’ron, instead of immuring yourself in the Weyr,” F’lar told him. “Asgenar knew of it yet neither T’kul nor R’mar thought to tell the other Weyrs, so we could prepare and keep watch. Just luck I had F’rad . . .”

“You’ve not been housing dragonmen in the Holds again?”

“I always send a messenger on ahead the day of a Fall. If I didn’t follow the practice, Asgenar’s forest lands would be gone by now.”

F’lar regretted that heated reference. It would give T’ron the wedge he needed for another of his diatribes about over forestration. To divert him, F’lar reached for the piece of Record, but T’ron twitched it out of his grasp.

“You’ll have to take my word for it . . .”

“Have I ever questioned your word, T’ron?” Those words, too, were out before F’lar could censor them. He could and did keep his face expressionless, hoping T’ron would not read in it an additional allusion to that meeting. “I can see that the Record’s badly eroded, but if you’ve deciphered it and it bears on this morning’s unpredicted shift, we’ll all be in your debt.”

“F’lar?” Lessa’s voice rang down the corridor. “Where are your manners? The klah’s cooling and it is predawn T’ron’s time.”

“I’d appreciate a cup,” T’ron admitted, as obviously relieved as F’lar by the interruption.

“I apologize for rousing you . . .”

“I need none, not with this news.”

Unaccountably F’lar was relieved to realize that T’ron had obviously not known of Threadfall. He had come charging in here, delighted at an opportunity to put F’lar and Benden in the wrong. He’d not have been so quick – witness his evasiveness and contradictions over the belt-knife fight – if he’d known.

When the two men entered the queen’s weyr, Lessa was gowned, her hair loosely held by an intricate net, and seated gracefully at the table. Just as if she hadn’t ridden hard all morning and been suited five minutes before.

So Lessa was all set to charm T’ron again, huh? Despite the unsettling events, F’lar was amused. Still, he wasn’t certain that this ploy would lessen T’ron’s antagonism. He didn’t know what truth there was in a rumor that T’ron and Mardra were not on very good terms for a Weyrwoman and Weyrleader.

“Where’s Ramoth?” T’ron asked, as he passed the queen’s empty weyr.

“On the Hatching Ground, of course, slobbering over her latest clutch.” Lessa replied with just the right amount of indifference .

But T’ron frowned, undoubtedly reminded that there was another queen egg on Benden’s warm sands and that the Oldtimers’ queens laid few gold eggs.

“I do apologize for starting your day so early,” she went on, deftly serving him a neatly sectioned fruit and fixing klah to his taste “But we need your advice and help.”

T’ron grunted his thanks, carefully placing the Record hide side down on the table.

“Threadfall could come when it would if we didn’t have all those blasted forests to care for,” T’ron said, glaring at F’lar through the steam of the klah as he lifted his mug.

“What? And do without wood?” Lessa complained, rubbing her hands on the carved chair which Bendarek had made with his consummate artistry. “Those stone chairs may fit you and Mardra,” she said in a sweet insinuating voice, “but I had a cold rear end all the time.”

T’ron snorted with amusement, his eyes wandering over the dainty Weyrwoman in such a way that Lessa leaned forward abruptly and tapped the Record.

“I ought not to take your valuable time with chatter. Have you discovered something here which we missed?”

F’lar ground his teeth. He hadn’t overlooked a single legible word in those moldy Records, so how could she imply negligence so casually?

He forgave her when T’ron responded by flipping over the hide. “The skin is badly preserved, of course,” and he made it sound as if Benden’s wardship were at fault, not the depredations of four hundred Turns of abandonment, “but when you sent that weyrling with this news, I happened to remember seeing a reference to a Pass where all previous Records were no help. One reason we never bothered with timetable nonsense.”

F’lar was about to demand why none of the Oldtimers had seen fit to mention that minor fact, when he caught Lessa’s stern look. He held his peace.

“See, this phrase here is partly missing, but if you put ‘unpredictable shifts’ here, it makes sense.”

Lessa, her gray eyes wide with an expression of unfeigned awe (her dissembling nearly choked F’lar), looked up from the Record at T’ron.

“He’s right, F’lar. That would make sense. See – ” and she deftly slipped the Record from T’ron’s reluctant fingers and passed it to F’lar. He took it from her.

“You’re right, T’ron. Very right. This is one of the older skins which I had to abandon, unable to decipher them.”

“Of course, it was much more readable when I first studied it four hundred Turns back, before it got so faded.” T’ron’s smug manner was hard to take, but he could be managed better so than when he was defensive and suspicious.

“But that doesn’t tell us how the shift changes, or how long it lasted,” F’lar said.

“There must be other clues, T’ron,” Lessa suggested, bending seductively toward the Fort Weyrleader when he began to bristle at F’lar’s words. “Why would Thread fall out of a pattern they’ve followed to the second for seven mortal Turns this Pass? You yourself told me that you followed a certain rhythm in your Time. Did it vary much then?”

T’ron frowned down at the blurred lines. “No,” he admitted slowly, and then brought his fist down on the offending scrap. “Why have we lost so many techniques? Why have these Records failed us just when we need them most?”

Mnementh began to bugle from the ledge, with Fidranth adding his note.

Lessa “listened,” head cocked.

“D’ram and G’narish,” she said. “I don’t think we need expect T’kul, but R’mart is not an arrogant man.”

D’ram of Ista and G’narish of Igen Weyrs entered together. Both men were agitated, sparing no time for amenities.

“What’s this about premature Threadfall?” D’ram demanded. “Where are T’kul and R’mart? You did send for them, didn’t you? Were your wings badly torn up? How much Thread burrowed?”

“None. We arrived at first Fall. And my wings sustained few casualties, but I appreciate your concern, D’ram. We’ve sent for the others.”

Though Mnementh had given no warning, someone was running down the corridor to the Weyr. Everyone turned, anticipating one of the missing Weyrleaders, but it was a weyrling messenger who came racing in.

“My duty, sirs,” the boy gasped out, “but R’mart’s badly hurt and there’re so many wounded men and dragons at Telgar Weyr, it’s an awful sight. And half the Holds of High Crom are said to be charred.”

The Weyrleaders were all on their feet.

“I must send some help – ” Lessa began, to be halted by the frown on T’ron’s face and D’ram’s odd expression. She gave a small impatient snort. “You heard the boy, wounded men and dragons, a Weyr demoralized. Help in time of disaster is not interference. That ancient lay about Weyr autonomy can be carried to ridiculous lengths and this is one of them. Not to help Telgar Weyr, indeed!”

“She’s right, you know,” G’narish said, and F’lar knew the man was one step closer to gaining a modern perspective.

Lessa left the chamber, muttering something about personally flying to Telgar Weyr. The weyrling followed her, dismissed by F’lar’s nod.

“T’ron found a reference to unpredictable shifts in this old Record Skin,” F’lar said, seizing control. “D’ram, do you have any recollections from your studies of Istan Records four hundred Turns ago?”

“I wish I did,” the Istan leader said slowly, then looked toward G’narish who was shaking his head. “Before I came here, I ordered immediate sweepwatches within my Weyr’s bounds and I suggest we all do the same.”

“What we need is a Pern-wide guard,” F’lar began, carefully choosing his words.

But T’ron wasn’t deceived and banged the table so hard that he set the crockery jumping. “Just waiting for the chance to lodge dragons in Holds and Crafthalls again, huh F’lar? Dragonfolk stick together . . .”

“The way T’kul and R’mart are doing by not warning the rest of us?” asked D’ram in such an acid tone that T’ron subsided.

“Actually, why should dragonfolk weary themselves when there is so much more manpower available in the Holds now?” asked G’narish in a surprised way. He smiled slightly with nervousness when he saw the others staring at him. “I mean, the individual Holds could easily supply the watchers we’ll need.”

“And they’ve the means, too,” F’lar agreed, ignoring T’ron’s surprised exclamation. “It’s not so very long ago that there were signal fires on every ridge and hill, across the plains, in case Fax began another of his acquisitive marches. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if most of those beacon fireguards are still in place.”

He was faintly amused by the expressions on the three faces. The Oldtimers never had recovered from the utter sacrilege of a Lord attempting to hold more than one territory. F’lar had no doubt this prompted such conservatives as T’kul and T’ron to impress on the commoners at every opportunity just how dependent they were on dragonfolk; and why they tried to limit and curtail contemporary freedoms and licenses. “Let the Holders light fires when Thread masses on the horizon – a few strategically placed riders could oversee great areas. Use the weyrlings; that’d keep them out of mischief and give ‘em good practice. Once we know how the Thread falls now, we’ll be able to judge the changes.” F’lar forced himself to relax, smiling. “I don’t think this is as serious a matter as it first appears. Particularly if shifts have occurred before. Of course, if we could find some reference to how long the shift lasted, if Thread went back to the original pattern, it’d help.”

“It would have helped if T’kul had sent word as you did,” D’ram muttered.

“Well, we all know how T’kul is,” F’lar said tolerantly.

“He’d no right to withhold such vital information from us,” T’ron said, again pounding the table. “Weyrs should stick together.”

“The Lord Holders aren’t going to like this,” G’narish remarked, no doubt thinking of Lord Corman of Keroon, the most difficult one of the Holders bound to his Weyr.

“Oh,” F’lar replied with more diffidence than he felt, “if we tell them we’ve expected such a shift at about this time in the Pass . . .”

“But – but the timetables they have? They’re not fools,” T’ron sputtered.

“We’re the dragonfolk, T’ron. What they can’t understand, they don’t need to know – or worry about,” F’lar replied firmly. “It’s not their business to demand explanations of us, after all. And they’ll get none.”

“That’s a change of tune, isn’t it, F’lar?” asked D’ram.

“I never explained myself to them, if you’ll think back D’ram I told them what had to be done and they did it.”

“They were scared stupid seven Turns ago,” G’narish remarked. “Scared enough to welcome us with wide-open arms and goods.”

“If they want to protect all those forests and croplands, they’ll do as we suggest or start charring their profits.”

“Let Lord Oterel of Tillek or that idiot Lord Sangel of Boll start disputing my orders and I’ll fire their forests myself,” said T’ron, rising.

“Then we’re agreed,” said F’lar quickly, before the hypocrisy he was practicing overcame him with disgust. “We mount watches, aided by the Holders, and we keep track of the new shift. We’ll soon know how to judge it.”

“What of T’kul?” G’narish asked.

D’ram looked squarely at T’ron. “We’ll explain the situation to him.”

“He respects you two,” F’lar agreed. “It might be wiser, though, not to suggest we knew about . . .”

“We can handle T’kul, without your advice, F’lar,” D’ram cut him off abruptly, and F’lar knew that the momentary harmony between them was at an end. The Oldtimers were closing ranks against the crime of their contemporary, just as they had at that abortive meeting a few nights ago. He could console himself with the fact that they hadn’t been able to escape all the implications of this incident.

Lessa came back into the weyr just then, her face flushed, her eyes exceedingly bright. Even D’ram bowed low to her in making his farewells.

“Don’t leave, D’ram, T’ron. I’ve good word from Telgar Weyr,” she cried, but catching F’lar’s glance, did not try to keep them when they demurred.

“R’mart’s all right?” G’narish asked, trying to smooth over the awkwardness.

Lessa recovered herself with a smile for the Igen leader.

“Oh that messenger – he’s only a boy – he exaggerated. Ramoth bespoke Solth the senior queen at Telgar Weyr. R’mart is badly scored, yes. Bedella evidently overdosed him with numbweed powder. She hadn’t the wit to send word to anyone. And the Wing-second assumed that we’d all been informed because he’d heard R’mart telling Bedella to send messengers, never dreaming she hadn’t. When R’mart passed out, she forgot everything.” Lessa’s shrug indicated her low opinion of Bedella. “The Wing-second says he’d be grateful for your advice.”

“H’ages is Wing-second at Telgar Weyr,” G’narish said. “A sound enough rider but he’s got no initiative. Say, you’re Thread-bared yourself, F’lar.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s bleeding,” Lessa contradicted. “And you haven’t eaten a thing.”

“I’ll stop at Telgar Weyr, F’lar, and talk to H’ages,” G’narish said.

“I’d like to come with you, G’narish, if you’ve no objections . . .”

“I’ve objections,” Lessa put in. “G’narish’s capable of ascertaining the extent of the Fall there and can relay the information to us. I’ll see him to the ledge while you start eating.” Lessa was so didactic that G’narish chuckled. She tucked her arm in his and started toward the corridor. “I’ve not made my duty to Gyarmath,” she said, smiling sweetly up at G’narish, “and he’s a favorite of mine, you know.”

She was flirting so outrageously that F’lar wondered that Ramoth wasn’t roaring protest. As if Gyarmath could ever catch Ramoth in night! Then he heard Mnementh’s rumble of humor and was reassured.

Eat, his bronze advised him. Let Lessa flatter G’narish Gyarmath doesn’t mind. Nor Ramoth. Nor I.

“What I do for my Weyr,” said Lessa with an exaggerated sigh as she returned a few moments later.

F’lar gave her a cynical look. “G’narish is more of a modern mind than he knows.”

“Then we’ll have to make him conscious of it,” Lessa said firmly.

“Just so long as it is ‘we’ who make him,” F’lar replied with mock severity, catching her hand and pulling her to him.

She made a token resistance, as she always did, scowling ferociously at him and then relaxed against his shoulder all at once. “Signal fires and sweepriding are not enough, F’lar,” she said thoughtfully. “Although I do believe we’ve worried too much about the change in Threadfall.”

“That nonsense was to fool G’narish and the others, but I thought you’d . . .”

“But don’t you see that you were right?”

F’lar gave her a long incredulous look.

“By the Egg, Weyrleader, you astonish me. Why can’t there be deviations? Because you, F’lar, compiled those Records and to spite the Oldtimers they must remain infallible? Great golden eggs, man, there were such things as Intervals when no Threads fell – as we both know. Why not a change of pace in Threadfall itself during a Pass?”

“But why? Give me one good reason why.”

“Give me one good reason why not! The same thing that affects the Red Star so that it doesn’t always pass close enough to cast Thread on us can pull it enough off course to change Fall! The Red Star is not the only one to rise and set with the seasons. There could be another heavenly body affecting not only us but the Red Star.”

“Where?”

Lessa shrugged impatiently. “How do I know? I’m not long in the eye like F’rad. But we can try to find out. Or have seven full Turns of certainty and schedule dulled your wits?”

“Now, see here, Lessa . . .”

Suddenly she pressed herself close to him, full of contrition for her sharp tongue. He held her close, all too aware that she was right. And yet . . . There had been that long and lonely wait until he and Mnementh could come into their own. The terrible dichotomy of confidence in his own prophecy that Thread would fall and fear that nothing would rescue the Dragonriders from their lethargy. Then the crushing realization that those all too few dragonmen were all that could save an entire world from destruction; the three days of torture between the initial fall over the impending one at Nerat Hold and Telgar Hold with Lessa who-knew-where. Did he not have a right to relax his vigilance? Some freedom from the weight of responsibility?

“I’ve no right to say such things to you,” Lessa was whispering in soft remorse.

“Why not? It’s true enough.”

“I ought never to diminish you, and all you’ve done, to placate a trio of narrow-minded, parochial, conservative . . .”

He stopped her words with a kiss, a teasing kiss that abruptly became passionate. Then he winced as her hands curving sensuously around his neck, rubbed against the Thread-bared skin.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Here, let me – ” and Lessa’s apology trailed off as she swiveled her body around to reach for the numbweed jar.

“I forgive you, dear heart, for all your daily machinations,” F’lar assured her sententiously. “It’s easier to flatter a man than fight him. I wish I had F’nor here right now!”

“I still haven’t forgiven that old fool T’ron,” Lessa said, her eyes narrowing, her lips pursed. “Oh, why didn’t F’nor just let T’reb have the knife?”

“F’nor acted with integrity,” F’lar said with stiff disapproval.

“He could’ve ducked quicker then. And you’re no better.” Her touch was gentle but the burns stung.

“Hmmm. What I have ducked is my responsibility to Our Pern in bringing the Oldtimers forward. We’ve let ourselves get bogged down on small issues, like whose was the blame in that asinine fight at the Mastersmith’s Hall. The real problem is to reconcile the old with the new. And we may just be able to make this new crisis work there to our advantage, Lessa.”

She heard the ring in his voice and smiled back at him approvingly.

“When we cut through traditions before the Oldtimers came forward, we also discovered how hollow and restrictive some of them were; such as this business of minimal contact between Hold, Craft and Weyr. Oh, true, if we wish to bespeak another Weyr, we can go there in a few seconds on a dragon, but it takes Holder or Crafter days to get from one place to another. They had a taste of convenience seven Turns ago. I should never have acquiesced and let the Oldtimers talk me out of continuing a dragon in Hold and Craft. Those signal fires won’t work, and neither will Sweepriders. You’re absolutely right about that, Lessa. Now if Fandarel can think up some alternative method of . . . What’s the matter? Why are you smiling like that?”

“I knew it. I knew you’d want to see the Smith and the Harper so I sent for them, but they won’t be here until you’ve eaten and rested.” She tested the fresh numbweed to see if it had hardened.

“And of course you’ve eaten and rested, too?”

She got off his lap in one fluid movement, her eyes almost black. “I’ll have sense enough to go to bed when I’m tired. You’ll keep on talking with Fandarel and Robinton long after you’ve chewed your business to death. And you’ll drink – as if you haven’t learned yet that only a dragon could out drink that Harper and that Smith – ” She broke off again, her scowl turning into a thoughtful frown. “Come to think of it, we’d do well to invite Lytol, if he’d come. I’d like to know exactly what the Lord Holders’ reactions are. But first, you eat!”

F’lar laughingly obeyed, wondering how he could suddenly feel so optimistic when it was now obvious that the problems of Pern were coming home to roost on his weyr ledge again.