The Council Room was fraught with tension and stunned reflection until Zurg, the Masterweaver, rose to speak.
“My craft, too, has something to offer … which is only fair since we deal with thread every day of our lives … in regard to the ancient methods.” Zurg’s voice was light and dry, and his eyes, in their creases of spare, lined flesh, were busy, darting from one face in his audience to another. “In Ruath Hold I once saw upon the wall … where the tapestry now resides, who knows?” He slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then at Bargen of the High Reaches who had succeeded to Fax’s title there. “The work was as old as dragonkind and showed, among other things, a man on foot, carrying upon his back a curious contraption. He held within his hand a rounded, sword-long object from which tongues of flame … magnificently woven in the orange-red dyes now lost to us … spouted toward the ground. Above, of course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes predominating … again we’ve lost that true dragon bronze shade. Consequently I remember the work as much for what we now lack as for its subject matter.”
“A flamethrower?” the Smith rumbled. “A flamethrower,” he repeated with a falling inflection. “A flamethrower,” he murmured thoughtfully, his heavy brows drawn into a titanic scowl. “A thrower of what sort of flame? It requires thought.”
He lowered his head and didn’t speak, so engrossed in the required thought that he lost interest in the rest of the discussion.
“Yes, good Zurg, there have been many tricks of every trade lost in recent Turns,” F’lar commented sardonically. “If we wish to continue living, such knowledge must be revived … fast. I would particularly like to recover the tapestry of which Master Zurg speaks.”
F’lar looked significantly at those Lords who had quarreled over Fax’s seven Holds after his death.
“It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it appear at Ruatha. Or at Zurg’s or at Fandarel’s crafthall. Whichever is most convenient.”
There was some shuffling of feet, but no one admitted ownership.
“It might then be returned to Fax’s son, who is now Ruatha’s Lord,” F’lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice. Lytol snorted softly and glowered around the room. F’lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Jaxom, reared by such a cheerless if honest guardian.
“If I may. Lord Weyrleader,” Robinton broke in, “we might all benefit, as your maps prove to us, from research in our own Records.” He smiled suddenly, an unexpectedly embarrassed smile. “I own I find myself in some disgrace for we Harpers have let slip unpopular ballads and skimped on some of the longer Teaching Ballads and Sagas … for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.”
F’lar stifled a laugh with a cough. Robinton was a genius.
“I must see that Ruathan tapestry,” Fandarel suddenly boomed out.
“I’m sure it will be in your hands very soon,” F’lar assured him with more confidence than he dared feel. “My Lords, there is much to be done. Now that you understand what we all face, I leave it in your hands as leaders in your separate Holds and crafts how best to organize your own people.
Craftsmen, turn your best minds to our special problems: review all Records that might turn up something to our purpose. Lords Telgar, Crom, Ruatha, and Nabol, I shall be with you in three days. Nerat, Keroon, and Jgen, I am at your disposal to help destroy any burrow on your lands. While we have the Masterminer here, tell him your needs. How stands your craft?”
“Happy to be so busy at our trade, weyrleader,” piped up the Masterminer.
Just then F’lar caught sight of F’nor, hovering about in the shadows of the hallway, trying to catch his eye. The brown rider wore an exultant grin, and it was obvious he was bursting with news. F’lar wondered how they could have returned so swiftly from the Southern Continent, and then he realized that F’nor again was tanned. He gave a jerk of his head, indicating that F’nor take himself off to the sleeping quarters and wait.
“Lords and Craftmasters, a dragonet will be at the disposal of each of you for messages and transportation. Now, good morning.”
He strode out of the Council Room, up the passageway into the queen’s weyr, and parted the still swinging curtains into the sleeping room just as F’nor was pouring himself a cup of wine.
“Success!” F’nor cried as the weyrleader entered. “Though how you knew to send just thirty-two candidates I’ll never understand. I thought you were insulting our noble Pridith. But thirty-two eggs she laid in four days. It was all I could do to keep from riding out when the first appeared.”
F’lar responded with hearty congratulations, relieved that there would be at least that much benefit from this apparently illfated venture. Now all he had to figure out was how much longer F’nor had stayed south until his frantic visit the night before. For there were no worry lines or strain in F’nor’s grinning, well-tanned face.
“No queen egg?” asked F’lar hopefully. With thirty-two in the one experiment, perhaps they could send a second queen back and try again. F’nor’s face lengthened. “No, and I was sure there would be. But there gre fourteen bronzes. Pridith out-matched Ramoth there,” he added proudly.
“Indeed she did. How goes the Weyr otherwise?”
F’nor frowned, shaking his head against an inner bewilderment. “Kylara’s … well, she’s a problem. Stirs up trouble constantly. T’bor leads a sad time with her, and he’s so touchy everyone keeps a distance from him.” F’nor brightened a little. “Young N’ton is shaping up into a fine wingleader, and his bronze may outfly Tbor’s Orth when Pridith flies to mate the next time. Not that I’d wish Kylara on N’ton … or anyone.”
“No trouble then with supplies?”
F’nor laughed outright. “If you hadn’t made it so plain we must not communicate with you here, we could supply you with fruits and fresh greens that are superior to anything in the north. We eat the way dragonmen should! F’lar, we must consider a supply Weyr down there. Then we shall never have to worry about tithing trains and …”
“In good time. Get back now. You know you must keep these visits short.”
F’nor grimaced. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I’m not here in this time, anyway.”
“True,” F’lar agreed, “but don’t mistake the time and come while you’re still here.”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, that’s right. I forget time is creeping for us and speeding for you. Well, I shan’t be back again till Pridith lays the second clutch.” With a cheerful good-bye, F’nor strode out of the weyr.
F’lar watched him thoughtfully as he slowly retraced his steps to the Council Room. Thirty-two new dragons, fourteen of them bronzes, was no small gain and seemed worth the hazard. Or would the hazard wax greater?
Someone cleared his throat deliberately. F’lar looked up to see Robinton standing in the archway that led to the Council Room.
“Before I can copy and instruct others about those maps, Weyrleader, I must myself understand them completely. I took the liberty of remaining behind.”
“You make a good champion, Masterharper.”
“You have a noble cause, Weyrleader,” and then Robinton’s eyes glinted maliciously. “I’ve been begging the Egg for an opportunity to speak out to so noble an audience.”
“A cup of wine first?”
“Benden grapes are the envy of Pern.”
“If one has the palate for such a delicate bouquet.”
“It is carefully cultivated by the knowledgeable.”
F’lar wondered when the man would stop playing with words. He had more on his mind than studying the time-charts.
“I have in mind a ballad which, for lack of explanation, I had set aside when I became the Master of my crafthall,” he said judiciously after an appreciative savoring of his wine.