“Lessa!”
“I wonder you can achieve as much as you do if you have to survive on this,” she went on, ignoring F’lar’s reprimand.
“What’s your wife’s name?”
“Lessa,” F’lar repeated, more urgently.
“No wife,” the Smith mumbled, but the rest of his sentence came out more as bread crumbs than words and he was reduced to shaking his head from side to side.
“Well, even a headwoman ought to be able to manage better than this.”
Terry cleared his mouth enough to explain. “Our headwoman is a good enough cook but she’s so much better at bringing up faded ink on the skins we’ve been studying that she’s been doing that instead.”
“Surely one of the other wives . . .”
Terry made a grimace. “We’ve been so pressed for help, with all these additional projects,” and he waved at the distance-writer, “that anyone who can has turned crafter – ” He broke off, seeing the consternation on Lessa’s face.
“Well, I’ve women sitting around the Lower Cavern doing make-work. I’ll have Kenalas and those two cronies of hers here to help as soon as a green can bring ‘em. And,” Lessa added emphatically, pointing a stern finger at the Smith, “they’ll have strict orders to do nothing in the craft, no matter what!”
Terry looked frankly relieved and pushed aside the meat-roll he had been gobbling down, as if he had only now discovered how it revolted him.
“In the meantime,” Lessa went on with an indignation that was ludicrous to F’lar. He knew who managed Benden Weyr’s domestic affairs. “I’m making a decent brew of klah. How you could have choked down such bitter dregs as this is beyond my comprehension!” She swept out the door, pot in hand, her angry monologue drifting back to amused listeners.
“Well, she’s right,” F’lar said, laughing. “This is worse than the worst the Weyr ever got.”
“To tell the truth, I never really noticed before,” Terry replied, staring at his plate quizzically.
“That’s obvious.”
“It keeps me going,” the Smith said placidly, swallowing a half-cup of klah to clear his mouth.
“Seriously, are you that short of men that you have to draft your women, too?”
“Not short of men, exactly, but of people who have the dexterity, the interest some of our projects require,” Terry spoke up, in quick defense of his Craftmaster.
“I mean no criticism, Master Terry,” F’lar said, hastily.
“We’ve done a good deal of reviewing of the old Records, too,” Terry went on, a little defensively still. He flipped the pile of skins that had been spilled down the center of the table. “We’ve got answers to problems we didn’t know existed and haven’t encountered yet.”
“And no answers to the troubles which beset us,” Fandarel added, gesturing skyward with his thumb.
“We’ve had to take time to copy these Records,” Terry continued solemnly, “because they are all but illegible now . . .”
“I contend that we lost more than was saved and useful. Some skins were worn out with handling and their message obliterated.”
The two smiths seemed to be exchanging portions of a well-rehearsed complaint.
“Did it never occur to you to ask the Masterharper for help in transcribing your Records?” asked F’lar.
Fandarel and Terry exchanged startled glances.
“I can see it didn’t. It’s not the Weyrs alone who are autonomous. Don’t you Craftmasters speak to each other?” F’lar’s grin was echoed by the big Smith, recalling Robinton’s words of the previous evening. “However, the Harperhall is usually overflowing with apprentices, set to copying whatever Robinton can find for them. They could as well take that burden from you.”
“Aye, that would be a great help,” Terry agreed, seeing that the Smith did not object.
“You sound doubtful – or hesitant? Are any Crafts secret?”
“Oh, no. Neither the Craftmaster nor I hold with cabalistic, inviolable sanctities, passed at deathbed from father to son . . .”
The Smith snorted with such powerful scorn that a skin on the top of the pile slithered to the floor. “No sons!”
“That’s all very well when one can count on dying in bed and at a given time, but I – and the Craftmaster – would like to see all knowledge available to all who need it,” Terry said.
F’lar gazed with increased respect at the stoop-shouldered Craft-second. He’d known that Fandarel relied heavily on Terry’s executive ability and tactfulness. The man could always be counted on to fill in the gaps in Fandarel’s terse explanations or instructions, but it was obvious now that Terry had a mind of his own, whether it concurred with his Craftmaster’s or not.
“Knowledge has less danger of being lost, then,” Terry went on less passionately but just as fervently. “We knew so much more once. And all we have are tantalizing bits and fragments that do almost more harm than good because they only get in the way of independent development.”
“We will contrive,” Fandarel said, his ineffable optimism complementing Terry’s volatility.
“Do you have men enough, and wire enough, to install one of those things at Telgar Hold in two days?” asked F’lar, feeling a change of subject might help.
“We could take men off flame throwers and hardware. And I can call in the apprentices from the Smithhalls at Igen, Telgar and Lemos,” the Smith said and then glanced slyly at F’lar. “They’d come faster dragonback!”
“You’ll have them,” F’lar promised.
Terry’s face lit up with relief. “You don’t know what a difference it is to work with Benden Weyr. You see so clearly what needs to be done, without any hedging and hemming.”
“You’ve had problems with R’mart?” asked F’lar with quick concern.
“It’s not that, Weyrleader,” Terry said, leaning forward earnestly. “You still care what happens, what’s happening.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
The Smith rumbled something but there seemed to be no interrupting Terry.
“I see it this way, and I’ve seen riders from every Weyr by now. The Oldtimers have been fighting Thread since their birth. That’s all they’ve known. They’re tired and not just from skipping forward in time four hundred Turns. They’re heart-tired, bone-tired. They’ve had too much rising to alarms, seen too many friends and dragons die, Thread-scored. They rest on custom, because that’s safest and takes the least energy. And they feel entitled to anything they want. Their minds may be numb with too much time between, though they think fast enough to talk you out of anything. As far as they’re concerned, there’s always been Thread. There’s nothing else to look forward to. They don’t remember, they can’t really conceive of a time, of four hundred Turns without Thread. We can. Our fathers could and their fathers. We live at a different rhythm because Hold and Craft alike threw off that ancient fear and grew in other ways, in other paths, which we can’t give up now. We exist only because the Oldtimers lived in their Time and in ours. And fought in both Times. We can see a way out, a life without Thread. They knew only one thing and they’ve taught us that. How to fight Thread. They simply can’t see that we, that anyone, could take it just one step further and destroy Thread forever.”
F’lar returned Terry’s earnest stare.
“I hadn’t seen the Oldtimers in just that light,” he said slowly.
“Terry’s absolutely right, F’lar,” said Lessa. She’d evidently paused on the threshold, but moved now briskly into the room, filling the Smith’s empty mug from the pitcher of klah she’d brewed. “And it’s a judgment we ought to consider in our dealings with them.” She smiled warmly at Terry as she filled his cup. “You’re as eloquent as the Harper. Are you sure you’re a smith?”
“That is klah!” announced Fandarel, having drunk it all.
“Are you sure you’re a Weyrwoman?” retorted F’lar, extending his cup with a sly smile. To Terry he said, “I wonder none of us realized it before, particularly in view of recent events. A man can’t fight day after day, Turn after Turn – though the Weyrs were eager to come forward – ” He looked questioningly at Lessa.