Lord Groghe was undoubtedly out in the fields right now, prowling from one tract of land to another on one of those long-legged running beasts which the Masterherdsman Sograny was developing. Groghe of Fort Hold was indefatigable, his slightly protuberant blue eyes never missing an unpruned tree or a badly harrowed row. He was a burly man, with grizzled hair which he wore tied in a neat band. His complexion was florid, with a temper to match. But, if he pushed his holders, he pushed himself as well, demanding nothing of his people, his children nor his fosterlings that he was not able to do himself. If he was conservative in his thinking, it was because he knew his own limitations and felt secure in that knowledge.
Robinton pulled at his lower lip, wondering if Lord Groghe was an exception in his disregard for this traditional Hold duty of removing all greenery near habitations. Or was this Lord Groghes answer to Fort Weyrs growing agitation over the immense forest lands of Fort Hold which the Dragonriders ought to protect? The Weyrleader of Fort Weyr, Tron, and his Weyrwoman, Mardra, had become less scrupulous about checking to see that no Thread burrows had escaped their wing riders to fall on the lush forests. Yet Lord Groghe had been scrupulous in the matter of ground crews and flame-throwing equipment when Thread fell over his forests. He had a stable of runners spread out through the Hold in an efficient network so that if Dragonriders were competent in flight, there was adequate ground coverage for any Thread that might elude the flaming breath of the airborne beasts.
But Robinton had heard ugly rumors of late, and not just from Fort Hold. Since he eventually heard every derogatory whisper and accusation uttered in Pern, he had learned to separate fact from spite, calumny from crime. Not basically an alarmist, because hed found much sifted itself out in the course of time, Robinton was beginning to feel the stirrings of alarm in his soul.
The Masterharper slumped in his chair, staring out on the bright day, the fresh new green of the fields, the yellow blossoms on the fruit trees the neat stone Holds that lined the road up to the main Hold, the cluster of artisans cotholds below the wide ramp up to the Great Outer Court of Fort Hold.
And if his suspicions were valid, what could he do? Write a scolding song? A satire? Robinton snorted. Lord Groghe was too literal a man to interpret satire and too righteous to take a scold. Furthermore, and Robinton pushed himself upright on his elbows, if Lord Groghe was neglectful, it was in protest at Weyr neglect of far greater magnitude. Robinton shuddered to think of Thread burrowing in the great stands of softwoods to the south.
He ought to sing his remonstrances to Mardra and Tron as Weyrleadersbut that, too, would be vain effort. Mardra had soured lately. She ought to have sense enough to retire gracefully to a chair and let men seek her favors if Tron no longer attracted her. To hear the Hold girls talk, Tron was lusty enough. In fact, Tron had better restrain himself. Lord Groghe didnt take kindly to too many of his chattels bearing dragonseed.
Another impasse, thought Robinton with a wry smile. Hold customs differed so from Weyr morals. Maybe a word to Flar of Benden Weyr? Useless, again. In the first place there was really nothing the bronze rider could do. Weyrs were autonomous and not only could Tron take umbrage for any advice Flar might see fit to offer, but Robinton was sure that Flar might tend to take the Lord Holders side.
This was not the first time in recent months that Robinton regretted that Flar of Benden Weyr had been so eager to relinquish his leadership after Lessa had gone back between to bring the five lost Weyrs forward in time. For a brief few months then, seven Turns ago, Pern had been united under Flar and Lessa against the ancient menace of Thread. Every Holder, Craftmaster, landsman, crafter, all had been of one mind. That unity had dissipated as the Oldtime Weyr-leaders had reasserted their traditional domination over the Holds bound to their Weyr for protection, and a grateful Pern had ceded them those rights. But in four hundred Turns the interpretation of that old hegemony had altered, with neither party sure of the translation.
Perhaps now was the time to remind Lord Holders of those perilous days seven Turns ago when all their hopes hung on fragile dragon wings and the dedication of a scant two hundred men.
Well, the Harper has a duty, too, by the Egg, Robinton thought, needlessly smoothing the wet sand. And the obligation to broadcast it.
In twelve days, Larad, Lord of Telgar, was giving his half-sister, Famira, to Asgenar, Lord of Lemos Hold. The Masterharper had been enjoined to appear with appropriate new songs to enliven the festivities. Flar and Lessa were invited as Lemos Hold was weyrbound to Benden Weyr. Thered be other notables among Weyr, Lord and Craft to signalize so auspicious an occasion.
And among my jolly songs, Ill have stronger meat.
Chuckling to himself at the prospect, Robinton picked up his stylus.
I must have a tender but intricate theme for Lessa. Shes legend already. Unconsciously the Harper smiled as he pictured the dainty, child-sized Weyrwoman, with her white skin, her cloud of dark hair, the flash of her gray eyes, heard the acerbity of her clever tongue. No man of Pern failed of respect for her, or braved her displeasure, with the exception of Flar.
Now a well-stated martial theme would do for Bendens Weyrleader, with his keen amber eyes, his unconscious superiority, the intense energy of his lean fighters frame. Could he, Robinton, rouse Flar from his detachment? Or was he perhaps unnecessarily worried about these minor irritations between Lord Holder and Weyrleader? But without the Dragonriders of Pern, the land would be sucked dry of any sustenance by Thread, even if every man, woman and child of the planet were armed with flame throwers. One burrow, well established, could race across plain and forest as fast as a dragon could fly it, consuming everything that grew or lived, save solid rock, water or metal. Robinton shook his head, annoyed with his own fancies. As if dragonmen would ever desert Pern and their ancient obligation.
Nowa solid beat on the biggest drum for Fandarel, the Mastersmith, with his endless curiosity, the great hands with their delicate skill, the ranging mind in its eternal quest for efficiency. Somehow one expected such an immense man to be as slow of wit as he was deliberate of physical movement.
A sad note, well sustained, for Lytol who had once ridden a Benden dragon and lost his Larth in an accident in the Spring Gameshad it been fourteen or fifteen Turns ago? Lytol had left the Weyrto be among dragonfolk only exacerbated his tremendous lossand taken to the craft of weaving. Hed been Crafthall Master in the High Reaches Hold when Flar had discovered Lessa on Search. Flar had appointed Lytol to be Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold when Lessa had abdicated her claim to the Hold to young Jaxom.
And how did a man signify the dragons of Pern? No theme was grand enough for those huge, winged beasts, as gentle as they were great, Impressed at Hatching by the men who rode them, flaming against Thread, who tended them, loved them, who were linked, mind to mind, in an unbreakable bond that transcended speech! (What was that really like? Robinton wondered, remembering that his youthful ambition had been to be a dragonman.) The dragons of Pern who could transfer themselves in some mysterious fashion between one place and another in the blink of an eye. Between even one Time and another!
The Harpers sigh came from his soul but his hand moved to the sand and pressed out the first note, wrote the first word, wondering if he would find some answer himself in the song.
He had barely filled the completed score with clay to preserve the text, when he heard the first throb of the drum. He strode quickly to the small outer court of the Crafthall, bending his head to catch the summons; it was his sequence all right, in urgent tempo. He concentrated so closely on the drumroll that he did not realize that every other sound common to the Harpers Hall had ceased.
Thread? His throat dried instantly. Robinton didnt need to consult the timetable to realize that the Threads were falling on the shores of Tillek Hold prematurely.
Across the valley on Fort Holds ramparts, the single watchman made his monotonous round, oblivious to disaster.
There was a soft spring warmth to the afternoon air as Fnor and his big, brown Canth emerged from their weyr in Benden Weyr. Fnor yawned slightly and stretched until he heard his spine crack. Hed been on the western coast all the previous day, Searching for likely ladsand girls, since there was a golden egg hardening on the Benden Weyr Hatching Groundsfor the next Impression. Benden Weyr certainly produced more dragons, and more queens, than the five Oldtimers Weyrs, Fnor thought.
Hungry? he asked courteously of his dragon, glancing down the Weyr Bowl to the Feeding Grounds. No dragons were dining and the herdbeasts stood in their fenced pasture, legs spraddled, heads level with their bony knees as they drowsed in the sunlight.
Sleepy, said Canth, although he had slept as long and deeply as his rider. The brown dragon proceeded to settle himself on the sun-warmed ledge, sighing as he sank down.
Slothful wretch, Fnor said, grinning affectionately at his beast.
The sun was full on the other side of the enormous mountain cup that formed the dragonmans habitation on the eastern coast of Pern. The cliffside was patterned with the black mouths of the individual dragon weyrs, starred where sun flashed off mica in the rocks. The waters of the Weyrs spring-fed lake glistened around the two green dragons bathing as their riders lounged on the grass verge. Beyond, in front of the weyrling barracks, young riders formed a semi-circle around the Weyrlingmaster.
Fnors grin broadened. He stretched his lean body indolently, remembering his own weary hours in such a semicircle, twenty odd Turns ago. The rote lessons which he had echoed as a weyrling had far more significance to this present group of Dragonriders. In his Turn, the Silver Thread of those teaching songs had not dropped from the Red Star for over four hundred Turns, to sear the flesh of man and beast and devour anything living which grew on Pern. Of all the dragonmen in Perns lone Weyr, only Fnors half-brother, Flar, bronze Mnemenths rider, had believed that there might be truth in those old legends. Now Thread was an inescapable fact, falling to Pern from the skies with diurnal regularity. Once more, its destruction was a way of life for Dragonriders. The lessons these lads learned would save their skins, their lives and, more important, their dragons.
The weyrlings are promising, Canth remarked as he locked his wings to his back and curled his tail against his hind legs. He settled his great head to his forelegs, the many-faceted eye nearest Fnor gleaming softly on his rider.
Responding to the tacit plea, Fnor scratched the eye ridge until Canth began to hum softly with pleasure.
Lazybones!
When I work, I work, Canth replied. Without my help, how would you know which holdbred lad would make a good dragonrider? And do I not find girls who make good queen riders, too?
Fnor laughed indulgently, but it was true that Canths ability to spot likely candidates for fighting dragons and breeding Queens was much vaunted by Benden Weyr dragonmen.
Then Fnor frowned, remembering the odd hostility of the small holders and crafters hed encountered in Southern Bolls Holds and Crafts. Yes, the people had been hostile untiluntil hed identified himself as a Benden Weyr dragonrider. Hed have thought itd be the other way round. Southern Boll was weyrbound to Fort Weyr. Traditionallyand Fnor grinned wryly since the Fort Weyrleaders Tron, was so adamant in upholding all that was traditional, customary . . . and statictraditionally, the Weyr which protected a territory had first claim on any possible riders. But the five Oldtime Weyrs rarely sought beyond their own Lower Caverns for candidates. Of course, thought Fnor, the Oldtime queens didnt produce large clutches like the modern queens, nor many golden queen eggs. Come to think on it, only three queens had been Hatched in the Oldtime Weyrs in the seven Turns since Lessa brought them forward.
Well, let the Oldtimers stick to their ways if that made them feel superior. But Fnor agreed with Flar. It was only common sense to give your dragonets as wide a choice as possible. Though the women in the Lower Caverns of Benden Weyr were certainly agreeable, there simply werent enough weyr-born lads to match up the quantity of dragons hatched.
Now, if one of the other Weyrs, maybe Gnarish of Igen Weyr or Rmart of Telgar Weyr, would throw open their junior queens mating flights, the Oldtimers might notice an improvement in size of clutch and the dragons that hatched. A man was a fool to breed only to his own Bloodlines all the time.
The afternoon breeze shifted and brought with it the pungent fumes of numbweed a-boil. Fnor groaned. Hed forgotten that the women were making numbweed for salve that was the universal remedy for the burn of Thread and other painful afflictions. That had been one main reason for going on Search yesterday. The odor of numbweed was pervasive. Yesterdays breakfast had tasted medicinal instead of cereal. Since the preparation of numbweed salve was a tedious as well as smelly process, most dragonmen made themselves scarce during its manufacture. Fnor glanced across the Weyr Bowl to the queens weyr. Ramoth, of course, was in the Hatching Ground, hovering over her latest clutch of eggs, but bronze Mnementh was absent from his accustomed perch on the ledge. Flar and he were off somewhere, no doubt escaping the smell of numbweed as well as Lessas uncertain temper. She conscientiously took part in even the most onerous duties of Weyrwoman, but that didnt mean she had to like them.
Numbweed stink notwithstanding, Fnor was hungry. He hadnt eaten since late afternoon yesterday, and, since there was a good six hours time difference between Southern Boll on the western coast and Benden Weyr in the east, hed missed the dinner hour at Benden Weyr completely.
With a parting scratch, Fnor told Canth that hed get some food, and started down the stone ramp from his ledge. One of the privileges of being Wing-second was choice of quarters. Since Ramoth as senior queen would permit only two junior queens in Benden Weyr, there were two unoccupied Weyr-woman quarters. Fnor had appropriated one and did not need to disturb Canth when he wished to descend to a lower level.