“Not a bit, my dear Lessa, I assure you. However, it’s not as if Benden were inadequately represented,” and he executed a little bow which, if she shrugged it off, at least made her laugh. “In fact,” he went on, “I’m a trifle relieved that F’lar isn’t here, railing at anything that keeps him from blotting out any Thread he happens to see in that contraption.”
“True enough.” And Robinton caught the edge to her voice. “I’m not sure . . .”
She didn’t finish her sentence and turned so swiftly to mark the landing of another dragon that Robinton was certain she was at odds with F’lar’s wishing to push a move against the Red Star.
Suddenly she stiffened, drawing in her breath sharply.
“Meron! What does he think he’s doing here?”
“Easy, Lessa. I don’t like him around any better than you, but I’d rather keep him in sight, if you know what I mean.”
“But he’s got no influence on the other Lords . . .”
Robinton gave a harsh laugh. “My dear Weyrwoman, considering the influence he’s been exerting in other areas, he doesn’t need the Lords’ support.”
Robinton did wonder at the gall of the man, appearing in public anywhere a, scant six days after he’d been involved in the deaths of two queen dragons.
The Lord Holder of Nabol strode insolently to the focal point of the gathering, his bronze fire lizard perched on his forearm, its wings extended as it fought to maintain its balance. The little creature began to hiss as it became aware of the antagonism directed at Meron.
“And this—this innocuous tube is the incredible instrument that will show us the Red Star?” Meron of Nabol asked scathingly.
“Don’t touch it, I beg of you.” Wansor jumped forward, intercepting Nabol’s hand.
“What did you say?” The lizard’s hiss was no less sibilantly menacing than Meron’s tone. The Lord’s thin features, contorted with indignation, took on an added malevolence from the glow lights.
Fandarel stepped out of the darkness to his craftsman’s side. “The instrument is positioned for the viewing. To move it would destroy the careful work of some hours.”
“If it is positioned for viewing, then let us view!” Nabol said and, after staring belligerently around the circle, stepped past Wansor. “Well? What do you do with this thing?”
Wansor glanced questioningly at the big Smith, who made a slight movement of his head, excusing him. Wansor gratefully stepped back and let Fandarel preside. With two gnarled fingers the Smith delicately held the small round protuberance at the of the smaller cylinder.
“This is the eyepiece. Put your best seeing eye to it,” he told Meron.
The lack of any courteous title was not lost on the Nabolese Plainly he wanted to reprimand the Smith. Had Wansor spoken so, he would have hesitated a second, Robinton thought.
Meron’s lips slid into a sneer and, with a bit of a swagger he took the final step to the distance-viewer. Bending forward slightly, he laid his eye to the proper place. And jerked his body back hastily, his face wearing a fleeting expression of shock and terror, He laughed uneasily and than took a second, longer look. Far too long a look to Robinton’s mind.
“If there is any lack of definition in the image, Lord Meron—” Wansor began tentatively.
“Shut up!” Gesturing him away impatiently, Meron continued his deliberate monopoly of the instrument.
“That will be enough, Meron,” Groghe, Lord of Fort said as the others began to stir restlessly. “You’ve had more than your turn this round. Move away. Let others see.”
Meron stared insolently at Groghe for a moment and then looked back into the eyepiece.
“Very interesting. Very interesting.” he said, his tone oily with amusement.
That is quite enough, Meron,” Lessa said, striding to the instrument. The man could not be allowed any privilege.
He regarded her as he might a body insect, coldly and mockingly.
“Enough of what—Weyrwoman?” And his tone made the title a vulgar epithet. In fact, his pose exuded such a lewd familiarity that Robinton found he was clenching his fists. He had an insane desire to wipe that look from Meron’s face and change the arrangement of the features in the process.
The Mastersmith, however, reacted mere quickly. His two great hands secured Meron’s arms to his sides and, in a fluid movement, Fandarel picked the Nabolese Lord up, the man’s feet dangling a full dragonfoot above the rock, and carried him as far away from the Star Stones as the ledge permitted. Fandarel then set Meron down so hard that the man gave a startled exclamation of pain and staggered before he gained his balance. The little lizard screeched around his head
“My lady,” the Mastersmith inclined his upper body toward Lessa and gestured with great courtesy for her to take her place.
Lessa had to stand on tiptoe to reach the eyepiece, silently wishing someone had taken into account that not all the viewers this evening were tall. The instant the image of the Red Star reached her brain, such trivial annoyance evaporated. There was the Red Star, seemingly no farther away than her arm could reach. It swam, a many-hued globe, like a child’s miggsy, in a lush black background. Odd whitish-pink masses must be clouds. Startling to think that the Red Star could possess clouds—like Pern. Where the cover was pierced, she could see grayish masses, a lively gray with glints and sparkles. The ends of the slightly ovoid planet were completely white, but devoid of the cloud cover. Like the great icecaps of northern regions of Pern. Darker masses punctuated the grays. Land? Or seas?
Involuntarily Lessa moved her head, to glance up at the round mark of redness in the night sky that was this child’s toy through the magic of the distance-viewer. Then, before anyone might think she’d relinquished the instrument, she looked back through the eyepiece. Incredible. Unsettling. If the gray was land—how could they possibly rid it of Thread? If the darker masses were land . . .
Disturbed, and suddenly all too willing that someone else be exposed to their ancient enemy at such close range, she stepped back.
Lord Groghe stepped forward importantly. “Sangel, if you please?”
How like the Fort Lord, Lessa thought, to play host when P’zar who was, after all, acting Weyrleader at Fort Weyr, did not act quickly enough to exert his rights. Lessa wished fervently that F’lar had been able to attend this viewing. Well, perhaps P’zar was merely being diplomatic with the Fort Lord Holder. Still, Lord Groghe would need to be kept . . .
She retreated—and knew it for a retreat—to Robinton. The Harper’s presence was always reassuring. He was eager to have his turn but resigned to waiting. Groghe naturally would give the other Lord Holders precedence over a harper, even the Masterharper of Pern.
“I wish he’d go,” Lessa said, glancing sideways at Meron. The Nabolese had made no attempt to re-enter the group from which he had been so precipitously expelled. The offensive stubbornness of the man in remaining where he clearly was not welcome provided a counterirritant to worry and her renewed fear of the Red Star.
Why must it appear so—so innocent? Why did it have to have clouds? It ought to be different. How it ought to differ, Lessa couldn’t guess, but it ought to look—to look sinister. And it didn’t. That made it more fearful than ever.
“I don’t see anything,” Sangel of Boll was complaining.
“A moment, sir.” Wansor came forward and began adjusting a small knob. “Tell me when the view clarifies for you.”
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Sangel demanded irritably. “Nothing there but a bright—ah! Oh!” Sangel backed away from the eyepiece as if Thread had burned him. But he was again in position before Groghe could call another Lord to his place.
Lessa felt somewhat relieved, and a little smug, at Sangel’s reaction. If the fearless Lords also got a taste of honest dread, perhaps . . .
“Why does it glow? Where does it get light? It’s dark here,” the Lord Holder of Boll babbled.
“It is the light of the sun, my Lord,” Fandarel replie
d, his deep, matter-of-fact voice reducing that miracle to common knowledge.
“How can that be?” Sangel protested. “The sun’s on the other side of us now. Any child knows that.”
“Of course, but we are not obstructing the Star from that light. We are below it in the skies, if you will, so that the sun’s light reaches it directly.”
Sangel seemed likely to monopolize the viewer, too.
“That’s enough, Sangel,” Groghe said testily. “Let Oterel have a chance.”