But F’lar began to grin as he settled himself on the edge of the nearest tub.
“That’s why I brought Andemon here and explained the project. We need help which only he can give us, once he himself is sure of matters. How long, Masterfarmer, does it take grubs to infest a field?”
Andemon dropped his chin to his chest in thought. He shook his head and admitted he couldn’t estimate. Once a field showed signs of infestation, the area was seared to prevent spreading.
“So, we must find out how long first!”
“You’ll have to wait for next spring,” the Farmer reminded him.
“Why? We can import grubs from Southern.”
“And put them where?” the Harper asked, sardonically.
F’lar chuckled. “Lemos Hold.”
“Lemos!”
“Where else?” and F’lar looked smug. “The forests are the hardest areas to protect. Asgenar and Bendarek are determined to preserve them. Asgenar and Bendarek are both flexible enough to accept such an innovation and carry it through. You, Masterfarmer, have the hardest task. To convince your crafters to leave off killing . . .”
Andemon raised a hand. “I have my own observations to make first.”
“By all means, Master Andemon,” and F’lar’s grin broadened, “I’m confident of the outcome. I remind you of your first journey to the Southern Weyr. You commented on the luxuriant growths, the unusual size of the trees and bushes common to both continents, the spectacular crops, the sweetness of the fruits. That is not due to the temperate weather. We have similar zones here in the north. It is due,” and F’lar pointed his finger first at Andemon and then toward the tubs, “to the stimulation, the protection of the grubs.”
Andemon was not totally convinced but F’lar did not press the point.
“Now, Master Andemon, the Harper will assist you all he can. You know your people better than we—you’ll know whom you can tell. I urge you to discuss it with your misted Masters. The more the better. We can’t lose this opportunity for lack of disciples. We might be forced to wait until your Oldtimers die off.” F’lar laughed wryly. “I guess the Weyrs are not the only ones to contend with Oldtimers; we’ve all got re-education to do.”
“Yes, there will be problems.” The magnitude of the undertaking had suddenly burst on the Masterfarmer.
“Many,” F’lar assured him blithely. “But the end result is freedom from Thread.”
“It could take Turns and Turns,” Andemon said, catching F’lar’s glance and, as if that consoled him somehow, straightened his shoulders. He was committed to the project.
“And well may take Turns. First,” and F’lar grinned with pure mischief in his eyes, “we’ve got to stop you farmers from exterminating our saviors.”
An expression of pure shock and indignation passed across Andemon’s weather-lined face. It was swiftly replaced by a tentative smile as the man realized that F’lar was ribbing him. Evidently an unusual experience for the Masterfarmer.
“Think of all the rewriting I have to do,” complained the Harper. “I’m dry just considering it.” He looked mournfully at the now empty wine bottle.
“This certainly calls for a drink,” Lessa remarked with a sidelong glance at Robinton. She took Andemon’s arm to guide him out.
“I’m honored, my lady, but I’ve work to oversee, and the investigations I ought to conduct.” He pulled away from her.
“Surely one drink?” Lessa pleaded, smiling in her most winning way.
The Masterfarmer ran his hand through his hair, clearly reluctant to refuse.
“One drink then.”
“To seal the bargain of Pern’s fate,” said the Harper, dropping his voice to a sepulchral bass and looking solemnly portentous and amazingly like Lord Groghe of Fort.
As they all trooped out of the Rooms, Andemon looked down at Lessa.
“If it isn’t presumptuous of me, the young woman, Brekke, who lost her queen—how is she?”
Lessa hesitated only a second. “F’nor here can answer you better than I. They’re Weyrmates.”
F’nor was forced to step up. “She’s been ill. Losing one’s dragon is a tremendous shock. She has made the adjustment. She won’t commit suicide now.”
The Masterfarmer halted, staring at F’nor. “That would be unthinkable.”
Lessa caught F’nor’s eye and he remembered he was talking to a commoner.
“Yes, of course, but the loss is unsettling.”
“Certainly. Ah, does she have any position at all now?” The words came slowly from the Farmer, then he added in a rush, “she is from my Crafthall you see, and we . . .”
“She is well loved and respected by all Weyrs,” Lessa broke in when Andemon faltered. “Brekke is one of those rare people who can hear any dragon. She will always enjoy a unique and high position with dragonfolk. She may, if she chooses, return to her home . . .”
“No!” The Masterfarmer was definite about that.
“Brekke is weyrfolk now,” F’nor said on the heels of that denial.
Lessa was a little surprised at such vehemence from both men. She’d had the notion from Andemon’s attitude that perhaps her Craft wanted her back.
“My apologies for being so brusque, my lady. It would be hard for her to live simply again.” His voice turned hard and lost all hesitancy. “What of that adulterous transgressor?”
“She—lives,” and there was an uncompromising echo of the Farmer’s coldness in Lessa’s voice.
“She lives?” The Masterfarmer stopped again, dropping Lessa’s arm and staring at her with anger. “She lives? Her throat should be cut, her body . . .”
“She lives, Masterfarmer, with no more mind or wit than a babe. She exists in the prison of her guilt! Dragonfolk take no lives!”
The Farmer stared hard at Lessa for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. With great courtesy he offered Lessa his arm when she indicated they should continue.
F’nor did not follow for the events of the day were taking a revenge of fatigue on him.
He watched as Andemon and Lessa joined the others at the main table, saw the Lemos and Telgar Lords come over. Lytol and young Jaxom with his white Ruth were nowhere to be seen. F’nor hoped Lytol had taken Jaxom back to Ruatha. He was more grateful to his discovery of fire lizards than at any other single time since Grall had first winked at him. He walked quickly toward the steep flight to his weyr, wanting to be with his own. Canth was in his weyr, all but one lid closed over his eyes. When F’nor entered, the final lids sagged shut. F’nor leaned his body against the dragon’s neck, his hands seeking the pulsespots in the soft throat, warm and steadying. He could “hear” the soft loving thoughts of the two lizards curled by Brekke’s head.
How long he stood there he couldn’t gauge, his mind rehearsing the Impression, Brekke’s release, Jaxom’s performance, the dinner, everything that had jammed into one eventful afternoon.