“Seven Turns ago, I called you together to prepare to defend Pern against its ancient scourge. Desperate measures were in order if we were to survive. We are in nowhere as difficult a condition as we were seven Turns ago but we have all been guilty of misunderstandings which have deflected us from the important concern. We have no time to waste in assigning guilt or awarding compensation. We are still at the mercy of Thread though we are better equipped to deal with it.
“Once before we found answers in old Records, in the helpful recollections of Masterweaver Zurg, Masterfarmer Andemon, Masterharper Robinton, and the efficiencies of Mastersmith Fandarel. You know what we’ve found in abandoned rooms at Benden and Fort Weyrs—objects made long Turns ago when we had not lost certain skills and techniques.
“Frankly,” and F’lar grinned suddenly, “I’d rather rely on skills and techniques we, in our Turn, right now, can develop.”
There was an unexpected ripple of assent to that.
“I speak of the skill of working together, the technique of crossing the arbitrary lines of land, craft and status, because we must learn more from each other than the simple fact that none of us can stand alone and survive!”
He couldn’t go on because half the men were on their feet, suddenly cheering. D’ram was pulling at his sleeve, G’narish was arguing with the Telgar Weyr Second, whose expression was grievously undecided. F’lar got a glimpse of Groghe’s face before someone stood in the way. Fort’s Lord, too, was plainly anxious but that was better than overt antagonism. Robinton caught his eye and smiled broad encouragement. So F’lar had no choice but to let them unwind. They might as well infect each other with enthusiasm—probably with more effect than his best-chosen arguments. He looked around for Lessa and saw her slipping toward the hallway where she stopped, evidently warned of a late arrival.
It was F’nor who appeared in the entrance.
“I’ve fire-lizard eggs,” he shouted. “Fire-lizard eggs,” and he pushed into the room, an aisle opening for him straight to the Council Table.
There was silence as he carefully placed his cumbersome felt-wrapped burden down and glanced triumphantly around the room.
“Stolen from under T’kul’s nose. Thirty-two of them!”
“Well, Benden,” Sangel of Southern Boll demanded in the taut hush, “who gets preference here?”
F’lar affected surprise. “Why, Lord Sangel, that is for you,” and his gesture swept the room impartially, “to decide.”
Clearly that had not been expected.
“We will, of course, teach you what we know of them, guide you in their training. They are more than pets or ornaments,” and he nodded toward Meron who bristled, so suspicious of attention that his bronze hissed and restlessly fanned his wings. “Lord Asgenar, you’ve two lizard eggs already. I can trust you to be impartial. That is, if the Lords share my opinion.”
As soon as they fell to arguing, F’lar left the Council Room. There was so much more to do this morning but he’d do it the better for a little break. And the eggs would occupy the Lords and Craftsmen. They wouldn’t notice his absence.
CHAPTER XII
Morning at Benden Weyr
Predawn at High Reaches Weyr
AS SOON as he could, F’nor left the Council Room in search of F’lar. He retrieved the pot of revolting grubs which he’d left in a shadowed recess of the weyr corridor.
He’s in his quarters, Canth told his rider.
“What does Mnementh say of F’lar?”
There was a pause and F’nor found himself wondering if dragons spoke among themselves as men spoke to them.
Mnementh is not worried about him.
F’nor caught the faintest emphasis on the pronoun and was about to question Canth further when little Grall swooped, on whirring wings, to his shoulder. She wrapped her tail around his neck and rubbed against his cheek adoringly.
“Getting braver, little one?” F’nor added approving thoughts to the humor of his voice.
There was a suggestion of smug satisfaction about Grall as she flipped her wings tightly to her back and sunk her talons into the heavy padding Brekke had attached to the left tunic shoulder for that purpose. The lizards preferred a shoulder to a forearm perch.
F’lar emerged from the sleeping room, his face lighting with eagerness as he realized F’nor was alone and awaiting him.
“You’ve the grubs? Good. Come.”
“Now, wait a minute,” F’nor protested, catching F’lar by the shoulder as the Weyrleader began to move toward the outer ledge.
“Come! Before we’re seen.” They got down the stairs without being intercepted and F’lar directed F’nor toward the newly opened entrance by the Hatching Ground. “The lizards were parceled out fairly?” he asked, grinning as Grall tucked herself as close to F’nor’s ear as she could when they passed the Ground entrance.
F’nor chuckled. “Groghe took over, as you probably guessed he would. The Lord Holders of Ista and Igen, Warbret and Laudey, magnanimously disqualified themselves on the grounds that their Holds were more likely to have eggs, but Lord Sangel of Boll took a pair. Lytol didn’t!”
F’lar sighed, shaking his head regretfully.
“I didn’t think he would but I’d hoped he’d try. Not a substitute for Larth, his dead brown, but—well . . .”
They were in the brightly lit, newly cleaned corridor now, which F’nor hadn’t seen. Involuntarily he glanced to the right, grinning as he saw that any access to the old peephole on the Grounds had been blocked off.
“That’s mean.”
“Huh?” F’lar looked startled. “Oh, that. Yes. Lessa said it upset Ramoth too much. And Mnementh agreed.” He gave his half-brother a bemused grin, half for Lessa’s quirk, half for the mutual nostalgic memory of their own terror-ridden exploration of that passage, and a clandestine glimpse of Nemorth’s eggs. “There’s a chamber back here that suits my purpose . . .”
“Which is?”
F’lar hesitated, giving F’nor a long, thoughtful look.
“Since when have you found me a reluctant conspirator?” asked F’nor.
“It’s asking more than . . .”
“Ask first!”