“I do not believe we are parasites,” F’lar said, breaking the silence with a soft, persuasive voice. “Nor anachronistic. There have been long Intervals before. The Red Star does not always pass close enough to drop Threads on Pern. Which is why our ingenious ancestors thought to position the Eye Rock and the Finger Rock as they did … to confirm when a Pass will be made. And another thing” his face turned grave “there have been other times when dragonkind has all but died out … and Pern with it because of skeptics like you.” F’lar smiled and relaxed indolently in his chair. “I prefer not to be recorded as a skeptic. How shall we record you, R’gul?”
The Council Room was tense. R’gul was aware of someone breathing harshly and realized it was himself. He looked at the adamant face of the young Weyrleader and knew that the threat was not empty. He would either concede to F’lar’s authority completely, though concession rankled deeply, or leave the Weyr. And where could he go, unless to one of the other Weyrs, deserted for hundreds of Turns? And R’gul’s thoughts were savage wasn’t that indication enough of the cessation of Threads? Five empty Weyrs? No, by the Egg of Faranth, he would practice some of F’lar’s own brand of deceit and bide his time. When all Pern turned on the arrogant fool, he, R’gul, would be there to salvage something from the rylns.
“A dragonman stays in his Weyr,” R’gul said with what dignity he could muster.
“And accepts the policies of the current Weyrleader?” The tone of F’lar’s voice made it less of a question and more of an order.
So as not to perjure himself, R’gul gave a curt nod of his head. Flar continued to stare at him and, R’gul wondered if the man could read his thoughts as his dragon might. He managed to return the gaze calmly. His turn would come. He’d wait.
Apparently accepting the capitulation, F’lar stood up and crisply delegated patrol assignments for the day.
“T’bor, you’re weather-watch. Keep an eye on those tithing trains as you do. Have you the morning’s report?”
“Weather is fair at dawning … all across Telgar and Keroon … if all too cold,” T’bor said with a wry grin.
“Tithing trains have good hard roads, though, so they ought to be here soon.” His eyes twinkled with anticipation of the feasting that would follow the supplies’ arrival a mood shared by all, to judge by the expressions around the table.
F’lar nodded. “S’lan and D’nol, you are to continue an adroit Search for likely boys. They should be striplings, if possible, but do not pass over anyone suspected of talent.It’s all well and good to present for Impression boys reared up in the Weyr traditions.” F’lar gave a one-sided smile.
“But there are not enough in the Lower Caverns. We, too, have been behind in begetting. Anyway, dragons reach full growth faster than their riders. We must have more young men to Impress when Ramoth hatches. Take the southern holds, Ista, Nerat, Fort, and South Boll where maturity comes earlier. You can use the guise of inspecting Holds for greenery to talk to the boys. And take along firestone and run a few flaming passes on those heights that haven’t been scoured in-oh dragon’s years. A flaming beast impresses the young and arouses envy.”
F’lar deliberately looked at R’gul to see the ex-weyrleader’s reaction to the order. R’gul had been dead set against going outside the Weyr for more candidates. In the first place, R’gul had argued that there were eighteen youngsters in the Lower Caverns, some quite young, to be sure, but R’gul would not admit that Ramoth would lay more than the dozen Nemorth had always dropped. In the second place, R’gul persisted in wanting to avoid any action that might antagonize the Lords.
R’gul made no overt protest, and F’lar went on.
“K’net, back to the mines. I want the dispositions of each firestone-dump checked and quantities available. R’gul, continue drilling recognition points with the weyriings. They must be positive about their references. If they’re used as messengers and suppliers, they may be sent out quickly and with no time to ask questions.
“F’nor, T’sum”F’lar turned to his own brown riders “you’re clean-up squad today.” He allowed himself a grin at their dismay. “Try Ista Weyr. Clear the Hatching Cavern and enough weyrs for a double wing. And, F’nor, don’t leave a single Record behind. They’re worth preserving. That will be all, dragonmen. Good flying.” And with that, F’lar rose and strode from the Council Room up to the queen’s weyr.
Ramoth still slept, her hide gloaming with health, its color deepening to a shade of gold closer to bronze, indicating her pregnancy. As he passed her, the tip of her long tail twitched slightly.
All the dragons were restless these days, F’lar reflected. Yet when he asked Mnementh, the bronze .dragon could give no reason. He woke, he went back to sleep. That was all. F’lar couldn’t ask a leading question for that would defeat his purpose. He had to remain discontented with the vague fact that the restlessness was some kind of instinctive reaction.
Lessa was not in the sleeping room, nor was she still bathing. F’lar snorted. That girl was going to scrub her hide off with this constant bathing. She’d had to live grimy to protect herself in Ruath Hold, but bathing twice a day? He was beginning to wonder if this might be a subtle Lessa-variety insult to him personally. F’lar sighed. That girl. Would she never turn to him of her own accord? Would he ever touch that elusive inner core of Lessa? She had more warmth for his half brother, F’nor, and for K’net, the youngest of the bronze riders than she had for F’lar who shared her bed.
He pulled the curtain back into place, irritated. Where had she gone to today when, for the first time in weeks, he had been able to get all the wings out of the Weyr just so he could teach her to fly between?
Ramoth would soon be too egg-heavy for such activity. He had promised the Weyrwoman, and he meant to keep that promise. She had taken to wearing the wherhide riding gear as a flagrant reminder of his unfulfilled pledge. From certain remarks she had dropped, he knew she would not wait much longer for his aid. That she would try it on her own didn’t suit him at all.
He crossed the queen’s weyr again and peered down the passage that led to the Records Room. She was often to be found there, poring over the musty skins. And that was one more matter that needed urgent consideration. Those Records were deteriorating past legibility. Curiously enough, earlier ones were still in good condition and readable. Another technique forgotten. That girl! He brushed his thick forelock of hair back from his brow in a gesture habitual to him when he was annoyed or worried. The passage was dark, which meant she could not be below in the Records Room.
“Mnementh,” he called silently to his bronze dragon, sunning on the ledge outside the queen’s weyr. “What is that girl doing?”
Lessa, the dragon replied, stressing the Weyrwoman’s name with pointed courtesy, is talking to Manora. She’s dressed for riding, he added after a slight pause.
F’lar thanked the bronze sarcastically and strode down the passage to the entrance. As he turned the last bend, he all but ran Lessa down.
You hadn’t asked me where she was, Mnementh plaintively answered F’lar’s blistering reprimand.
Lessa rocked back on her heels from the force of their encounter. She glared up at him, her lips thin with displeasure, her eyes flashing.
“Why didn’t I have the opportunity of seeing the Red Star through the Eye Rock?” she demanded in a hard, angry voice.
F’lar pulled at his hair. Lessa at her most difficult would complete the list of this morning’s trials.
“Too many to accommodate on the Peak as it was,” he muttered, determined not to let her irritate him today. “And you already believe.”