Robinton’s hearty guffaw startled her. And wiped the smile from Nabol’s face.
“Benden’s Weyrwoman has not half the attraction for me that Benden’s wine has!”
There was such intense relief in the faces around her that Lessa knew, in a sinking, sick way, that the Lord Holders had been halfway to believing Meron’s invidious accusation. If Robinton had not responded just as he had, if she had started to protest the accusation . . . She grinned, too, managed to chuckle because the Masterharper’s fondness for wine, for the Benden wines in particular, was such common knowledge, it was more plausible than Meron’s slander. Ridicule was a better defense than truth.
“Furthermore,” the Harper went on, “the Masterharper of Pern has no opinion, one way or another, about the Red Star – not even a verse. Because that – that – child’s miggsy scares him juiceless and makes him yearn for some of that Benden wine, right now, in limitless quantity.” Robinton had not the slightest trace of laughter in his voice now. “I’m too steeped in the history and lore of our beloved Pern, I’ve sung too many ballads about the evil of the Red Star to want to get any closer to it. Even that – ” and he pointed to the distance-viewer, “brings it far too near me. But the men who have to fight Thread day after day, Turn after Turn, can look upon it with less fearfulness than the poor Harper. And, Meron, Lord Holder of Nabol, you can wager every field and cot and hall upon your lands that the dragonmen of every Weyr would like to be quit of any obligation to keep your hide Threadfree even if it means wiping Thread from every squared length of that Star.” The vehemence in the Harper’s voice caused Meron to take a backward step, to clap a hand on the violently agitated fire lizard. “How can a you, any of you,” and the Harper’s opprobrium fell equally now on the other four Lords, “doubt that the Dragonriders wouldn’t be as relieved as you to see the end of their centuries of dedication to your safety. They don’t have to defend you from Thread. You, Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Oterel, you all ought to realize that by now. You’ve had T’kul to deal with, and T’ron.
“You all know what Thread does to a man. And you know what happens when a dragon dies. Or must I remind you of that, too? Do you honestly believe that the Dragonriders wish to prolong such conditions, such occurrences? What do they get out of it? Not much! Not much! Are the scores they suffer worth a few bags of grain, or a blade from the Smith’s? Is a dragon’s death truly recompensed by a length of goods or a scrawny herdbeast?
“And if there have been instruments for man with his puny eyes to view that bauble in the sky, why do we still have Thread? If it’s just a question of finding coordinates and taking that jump? Could it be that it has been tried by Dragonriders before? And they failed because those gray masses we see so clearly are not water, or land, but uncountable Threads, seething and writhing, until the topmost can, by some mysterious agency, win free to plague us? Could it be because, although there are clouds, they do not consist of water vapor as Pern’s clouds, but something deadly, far more inimical to us than Thread? How do we know we will not find the bones of long-lost dragons and riders in the dark blots of the planet? There is so much we do not know that, yes, I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us. But I think the time for wisdom is now past and we must rely on the folly of the brave and hope that it will suffice them and us. For I do believe,” and the Harper turned slowly toward Lessa, “though my heart is heavy and I am scared soulless, that the dragonmen of Pern will go to the Red Star.”
“That is F’lar’s intention,” Lessa said in a strong, ringing voice, her head high, her shoulders straight. Unlike the Harper, she could not admit her fear, even to herself.
“Aye,” rumbled Fandarel, nodding his great head slowly up and down, “for he has enjoined me and Wansor to make many observations on the Red Star so that an expedition can be sent as soon as possible.”
“And how long must we wait until this expedition takes place?” Meron asked, as if the Harper’s words had never been spoken.
“Come now, man, how can you expect any one to give a date – a time?” asked Groghe.
“Ah, but Benden Weyr is so adept at giving times and dates and patterns, is it not?” Meron replied so unctuously that Lessa wanted to scratch his face.
“And they saved your profit, Nabol,” Oterel put in.
“Have you any idea, Weyrwoman?” Sangel asked Lessa in an anxious tone.
“I must complete the observations,” Wansor put in, nervously dithering. “It would be folly – madness – until we have seen the entire Red Star, and plot in the distinctive features of the various color masses. See how often the clouds cover it. Oh, there is much preliminary investigation to be done.
And then, some kind of protective . . .”
“I see,” Meron broke in.
Would the man never cease smiling? And yet, Lessa thought, his irony might work in their favor.
“It could be a lifelong project,” he went on.
“Not if I know F’lar,” the Harper said dryly. “I’ve recently entertained the notion that Benden’s Weyrleader takes these latest vagaries of our ancient scourge as a personal insult since we had rather thought we’d got them neatly slotted in time and place.”
There was such good-humored raillery in the Harper’s tone that Oterel of Tillek gave a snort. Lord Groghe looked more thoughtful, probably not quite recovered from F’lar’s rebuttal the other day.
“An insult to Benden?” asked Sangel, baffled. “But his time tables were accurate for Turns. Used them myself and never found them wrong until just recently.”
Meron stamped his foot, his affected pose gone.
“You’re all fools. Letting the Harper sweet-talk you into complacency. We’ll never see the end of Thread. Not in his lifetime or ours. And we’ll be paying tithes to shiftless Weyrs deferring to Dragonriders and their women as long as this planet circles the sun. And there’s not one of you great Lords, not one, with the courage to force this issue. We don’t need Dragonriders. We don’t need ‘em. We’ve fire lizards which eat Thread . . .”
“Then shall I inform T’bor of the High Reaches Weyr that his wings need no longer patrol Nabol? I’m certain he would be relieved,” Lessa asked in her lightest, sweetest voice.
The Nabolese Lord gave her a look of pure hatred. The fire lizard gathered itself into a hissing launch position. A single clear note from Ramoth all but deafened those on the heights. The fire lizard disappeared with a shriek. Strangling on his curses, Meron stamped down the lighted path to the landing, calling harshly for his dragon. The green appeared with such alacrity that Lessa was certain Ramoth had summoned him, even as she had warned the little lizard against attacking Lessa.
“You wouldn’t order T’bor to stop patrolling Nabol, would you, Weyrwoman?” asked Nessel, Lord of Crom. “After all, my lands march with his . . .”
“Lord Nessel,” Lessa began, intending to reassure him that she had no such authority in the first place and in the second . . . “Lord Nessel,” she repeated instead, smiling at him, “you notice that the Lord of Nabol did not request it, after all. Though,” and she sighed with dramatic dedication, “we have been sorely tempted to penalize him for his part in the death of the two dragon queens.” She gave Nessel a wan, brave smile. “But there are hundreds of innocent people on his lands, and many more about him, who cannot be permitted to suffer because of his – his – how shall I phrase it – his irrational behavior.”
“Which leads me to ask,” Groghe said, hastily clearing his throat, “what is being done with that – that Kylara woman?”
“Nothing,” Lessa said in a flat hard voice, trusting that would end the matter.
“Nothing?” Groghe was incensed. “She caused the deaths of two queens and you’re doing nothing . . .”