“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.