Obediently F’nor crossed to the hearth where she, Lessa, and another young woman who looked familiar though F’nor couldn’t place her, were examining a small kettle.
“My duty to you, Lessa, Manora – ” and he paused, groping for the third name.
“You ought to remember Brekke, F’nor,” Lessa said, raising her eyebrows at his lapse.
“How can you expect anyone to see in a place dense with fumes?” F’nor demanded, making much of blotting his eyes on his sleeve. “I haven’t seen much of you, Brekke, since the day Canth and I brought you from your crafthold to Impress young Wirenth.”
“F’nor, you’re as bad as F’lar,” Lessa exclaimed, somewhat testily. “You never forget a dragon’s name, but his rider’s?”
“How fares Wirenth, Brekke?” F’nor asked, ignoring Lessa’s interruption.
The girl looked startled but managed a hesitant smile, then pointedly looked towards Manora, trying to turn attention from herself. She was a shade too thin for F’nor’s tastes, not much taller than Lessa whose diminutive size in no way lessened the authority and respect she commanded. There was, however, a sweetness about Brekke’s solemn face, unexpectedly framed with dark curly hair, that F’nor did find appealing. And he liked her self-effacing modesty. He was wondering how she got along with Kylara, the tempestuous and irresponsible senior Weyrwoman at Southern Weyr, when Lessa tapped the empty pot before her.
“Look at this, F’nor. The lining has cracked and the entire kettle of numbweed salve is discolored.”
F’nor whistled appreciatively.
“Would you know what it is the Smith uses to coat the metal?” Manora asked. “I wouldn’t dare use tainted salve and yet I hate to discard so much if there’s no reason.”
F’nor tipped the pot to the light. The dull tan lining was seamed by fine cracks along one side.
“See what it does to the salve?” and Lessa thrust a small bowl at him,
The anesthetic ointment, normally a creamy, pale yellow, had turned a reddish tan. Rather a threatening color, F’nor thought. He smelled it, dipped his finger in and felt the skin immediately deaden.
“It works,” he said with a shrug.
“Yes, but what would happen to an open Thread score with that foreign substance cooked into the salve?” asked Manora.
“Good point. What does F’lar say?”
“Oh, him.” Lessa screwed her fine delicate features into a grimace. “He’s off to Lemos Hold to see how that woodcraftsman of Lord Asgenar’s is doing with the wood pulp leaves.”
F’nor grinned. “Never around when you want him, huh, Lessa?”
She opened her mouth for a stinging reply, her gray eyes snapping, and then realized that F’nor was teasing.
“You’re as bad as he is,” she said, grinning up at the tall Wing-second who resembled her Weyrmate so closely. Yet the two men, though the stamp of their mutual sire was apparent in the thick shocks of black hair, the strong features, the lean rangy bodies (F’nor had a squarer, broader frame with not enough flesh on his bones so that he appeared unfinished), the two men were different in temperament and personality. F’nor was less introspective and more easygoing than his half brother. F’lar, the elder by three Turns. The Weyrwoman sometimes found herself treating F’nor as if he were an extension of his half brother and, perhaps for this reason, could joke and tease with him. She was not on easy terms with many people.
F’nor returned her smile and gave her a mocking little bow for the compliment.
“Well. I’ve no objections to running your errand to the Mastersmithhall. I’m supposed to be Searching and I can Search in Telgar Hold as well as anywhere else. R’mart’s nowhere near as sticky as some of the other Oldtime Weyr-leaders.” He took the pot off the hook, peering into it once more, then glanced around the busy room, shaking his head. “I’ll take your pot to Fandarel but it looks to me as though you’ve already got enough numbweed to coat every dragon in all six – excuse me – seven Weyrs.” He grinned at Brekke for the girl seemed curiously ill at ease. Lessa could be snap-tempered when she was preoccupied and Ramoth was fussing over her latest clutch like a novice – which would tend to make Lessa more irritable. Strange for a junior Weyrwoman from Southern Weyr to be involved in any brewing at Benden.
“A Weyr can’t have too much numbweed,” Manora said briskly.
“That isn’t the only pot that’s showing cracks, either,” Lessa cut in, testily. “And if we’ve got to gather more numbweed to make up what we’ve lost . . .”
“There’s the second crop at the Southern Weyr,” Brekke suggested, then looked flustered for speaking up.
But the look Lessa turned on Brekke was grateful. “I’ve no intention of shorting you, Brekke, when Southern Weyr does the nursing of every fool who can’t dodge Thread.”
“I’ll take the pot. I’ll take the pot,” F’nor cried with humorous assurance. “But first, I’ve got to have more in me than a cup of klah”
Lessa blinked at him, her glance going to the entrance and the late afternoon sun slanting in on the floor.
“It’s only just past noon in Telgar Hold,” he said, patiently. “Yesterday I was all day Searching at Southern Boll so I’m hours behind myself.” He stifled a yawn.
“I’d forgotten. Any luck?”
“Canth didn’t twitch an ear. Now let me eat and get away from the stink. Don’t know how you stand it.”
Lessa snorted. “Because I can’t stand the groans when you riders don’t have numbweed.”
F’nor grinned down at his Weyrwoman, aware that Brekke’s eyes were wide in amazement at their good-natured banter. He was sincerely fond of Lessa as a person, not just as Weyrwoman of Benden’s senior queen. He heartily approved of F’lar’s permanent attachment of Lessa, not that there seemed much chance that Ramoth would ever permit any dragon but Mnementh to fly her. As Lessa was a superb Weyrwoman for Benden Weyr, so F’lar was the logical bronze rider. They were well matched as Weyrwoman and Weyrleader, and Benden Weyr – and Pern – profited. So did the three Holds bound to Benden for protection. Then F’nor remembered the hostility of the people at Southern Boll yesterday until they learned that he was a Benden rider. He started to mention this to Lessa when Manora broke his train of thought.
“I am very disturbed by this discoloration. F’nor,” she said. “Here. Show Mastersmith Fandarel these,” and she put two small pots into the larger vessel. “He can see exactly the change that occurs. Brekke, would you be kind enough to serve F’nor?”
“No need,” F’nor said hastily and backed away, pot swinging from his hand. He used to be annoyed that Manora, who was only his mother, could never rid herself of the notion that he was incapable of doing for himself. She was certainly quick enough to make her fosterlings fend for themselves, as his foster mother had made him.
“Don’t drop the pot when you go between, F’nor,” was her parting admonition.
F’nor chuckled to himself. Once a mother, always a mother, he guessed, for Lessa was as broody about Felessan, the only child she’d borne. Just as well the Weyrs practiced fostering. Felessan – as likely a lad to Impress a bronze dragon as F’nor had seen in all his Turns at Searching – got along far better with his placid foster mother than he would have with Lessa had she had the rearing of him.
As he ladled out a bowl of stew, F’nor wondered at the perversity of women. Girls were constantly pleading to come to Benden Weyr. They’d not be expected to bear child after child till they were worn-out and old. Women in the Weyrs remained active and appealing. Manora had seen twice the Turns that, for instance, Lord Sifer of Bitra’s latest wife had, yet Manora looked younger. Well, a rider preferred to seek his own loves, not have them foisted on him. There were enough spare women in the Lower Caverns right now.