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“Convey my duty to your lady, Lord Fax,” F’lar rejoined, noticing with inward satisfaction the tightening of Fax’s jaw muscles at the ceremonial request.
F’lar was enjoying himself thoroughly. He had not yet been born on the occasion of the last Search, the one that ill-fatedly provided the incompetent Jora. But he had studied the accounts of previous Searches in the Old Records that had included subtle ways to confound those Lords who preferred to keep their ladies sequestered when the dragonmen rode. For Fax to refuse F’lar the opportunity to pay his duty would have been tantamount to a major insult, discharged only in mortal combat.
“You would prefer to see your quarters first?” Fax countered.
F’lar flicked an imaginary speck from his soft wher-hide sleeve and shook his head.
“Duty first,” he said with a rueful shrug.
“Of course,” Fax all but snapped and strode smartly ahead, his heels pounding out the anger he could not express otherwise.
F’lar and F’nor followed at a slower pace through the double-doored entry with its great metal panels, into the Great Hall, carved into the cliffside. The U-shaped table was being cleared by nervous servitors, who rattled and dropped tableware as the two dragon-men entered. Fax had already reached the far end of the Hall and stood impatiently at the open slab door, the only access to the inner Hold, which, like all such Holds, burrowed deep into stone, the refuge of all in time of peril.
“They eat not badly,” F’nor remarked casually to F’lar, appraising the remnants still on the table.
“Better than the Weyr, it would seem,” F’lar replied dryly, covering his speech with his hand as he saw two drudges staggering under the weight on a tray that bore a half-eaten carcass.
“Young and tender,” F’nor said in a bitter undertone, “from the look of it. While the stringy, barren beasts are delivered up to us.”
“Naturally.”
“A pleasantly favored Hall,” F’lar said amiably as they reached Fax. Then, seeing Fax impatient to continue, F’lar deliberately turned back to the banner-hung Hall. He pointed out to F’nor the deeply set slit windows, heavy bronze shutters open to the bright noonday sky. “Facing east, too, as they ought. That new Hall at Telgar Hold actually faces south, I’m told. Tell me, Lord Fax, do you adhere to the old practices and mount a dawn guard?”
Fax frowned, trying to parse F’lar’s meaning.
“There is always a guard at the Tower.”
“An easterly guard?”
Fax’s eyes jerked toward the windows, then back, sliding across F’lar’s face to F’nor and back again to the windows.
“There are always guards,” he answered sharply, “on all the approaches.”
“Oh, just the approaches,” and F’lar turned to F’nor and nodded wisely.
“Where else?” demanded Fax, concerned, glancing from one dragonman to the other.
“I must ask that of your harper. You do keep a trained harper in your Hold?”
“Of course. I have several trained harpers.” Fax jerked his shoulders straighter.
F’lar affected not to understand.
“Lord Fax is the overlord of six other Holds,” F’nor reminded his wingleader.
“Of course,” F’lar assented, with exactly the same inflection Fax had used a moment before.
The mimicry did not go unnoticed by Fax, but as he was unable to construe deliberate insult out of an innocent affirmative, he stalked into the glow-lit corridors. The dragonmen followed.
“It is good to see one Holder keeping so many ancient customs,” F’lar said to F’nor approvingly for Fax’s benefit as they passed into the inner Hold. “There are many who have abandoned the safety of solid rock and enlarged their outer Holds to dangerous proportions. I can’t condone the risk myself.”
“Their risk, Lord F’lar. Another’s gain,” Fax snorted derisively, slowing to a normal strut.
“Gain? How so?”
“Any outer Hold is easily penetrated, bronze rider, with trained forces, experienced leadership, and well-considered strategy.”
The man was not a braggart, F’lar decided. Nor, in these peaceful days, did he fail to mount Tower guards. However, he kept within his Hold, not out of obedience to ancient Laws, but through prudence. He kept harpers for ostentation rather than because tradition required it. But he allowed the pits to decay; he permitted grass to grow. He accorded dragonmen the barest civility on one hand and offered veiled insult on the other. A man to be watched.
The women’s quarters in Fax’s Hold had been moved from the traditional innermost corridors to those at the cliff-face. Sunlight poured down from the three double-shuttered, deep-casement windows in the outside wall. F’lar noted that the bronze hinges were well oiled. The sills were the regulation spear-length; Fax had not given in to the recent practice of diminishing the protective wall.
The chamber was richly hung with appropriately gentle scenes of women occupied in all manner of feminine tasks. Doors gave off the main chamber on both sides into smaller sleeping alcoves, and from these, at Fax’s bidding, his women hesitantly emerged. Fax sternly gestured to a blue-gowned woman, her hair white-streaked, her face lined with disappointments and bitterness, her body swollen with pregnancy. She advanced awkwardly, stopping several feet from her lord. From her attitude, F’lar deduced that she came no closer to Fax than was absolutely necessary.
“The Lady of Crom, mother of my heirs,” Fax said without pride or cordiality.
“My Lady—” F’lar hesitated, waiting for her name to be supplied.
She glanced warily at her lord.
“Gemma,” Fax snapped curtly.
F’lar bowed deeply. “My Lady Gemma, the Weyr is on Search and requests the hospitality of the Hold.”
“My Lord F’lar,” the Lady Gemma replied in a low voice, “you are most welcome.”
F’lar did not miss the slight slur on the adverb or the fact that Gemma had no trouble naming him. His smile was warmer than courtesy demanded, warm with gratitude and sympathy. Judging by the number of women in these quarters, Fax bedded well and frequently. There might be one or two Lady Gemma could bid farewell without regret.
Fax went through the introductions, mumbling names until he realized this strategy was not going to work. F’lar would politely beg the lady’s name again. F’nor, his smile brightening as he took heed which ladies Fax preferred to keep anonymous, lounged indolently by the doorway. F’lar would compare notes with him later, although on cursory examination there was none here worthy of the Search. Fax preferred his women plump and small. There wasn’t a saucy one in the lot. If there once had been, the spirit had been beaten out of them. Fax, no doubt, was stud, not lover. Some of the covey had not all winter long made much use of water, judging from the amount of sweet oil gone rancid in their hair. Of them all, if these were all, the Lady Gemma was the only willful one, and she was too old.
The amenities over, Fax ushered his unwelcome guests outside. F’nor was excused by his wingleader to join the other dragonmen. Fax peremptorily led the way to the quarters he had assigned the bronze rider.
The chamber was on a lower level than the women’s suite and was certainly adequate to the dignity of its occupant. The many-colored hangings were crowded with bloody battles, individual swordplay, bright-hued dragons in flight, firestones burning on the ridges, and all that Pern’s scarlet-stained history offered.
“A pleasant room,” F’lar acknowledged, stripping off gloves and wher-hide tunic, throwing them carelessly to the table. “I shall see to my men and the beasts. The dragons have all been fed recently,” he commented, pointing up Fax’s omission in inquiring. “I request liberty to wander through the crafthold.”
Fax sourly granted what was traditionally a dragonman’s privilege.
“I shall not further disrupt your routine, Lord Fax, for you must have many demands on you, with seven Holds to supervise.” F’lar inclined his body slightly to the overlord, turning away as a gesture of
dismissal. He could imagine the infuriated expression on Fax’s face and listened to the stamping retreat. He waited long enough to be sure Fax was out of the corridor and then briskly retraced his steps up to the Great Hall.
Bustling drudges paused in setting up additional trestle tables to eye the dragonman. He nodded pleasantly to them, looking to see if one of these females might possibly have the stuff of which Weyrwomen are made. Overworked, underfed, scarred by lash and disease, they were just what they were—drudges, fit only for hard, menial labor.
F’nor and the men had settled themselves in a hastily vacated barrackroom. The dragons were perched comfortably on the rocky ridges above the Hold. They had so arranged themselves that every segment of the wide valley fell under their scrutiny. All had been fed before leaving the Weyr, and each rider kept his dragon in light but alert charge. There were to be no incidents on a Search.
As a group, the dragomnen rose at F’lar’s entrance.
“No tricks, no troubles, but look around closely,” he said laconically. “Return by sundown with the names of any likely prospects.” He caught F’nor’s grin, remembering how Fax had slurred over some names. “Descriptions are in order and craft affiliation.”
The men nodded, their eyes glinting with understanding. They were flatteringly confident of a successful Search even as F’lar’s doubts grew now that he had seen all of Fax’s women. By all logic, the pick of the High Reaches should be in Fax’s chief Hold, but they were not. Still, there were many large craftholds, not to mention the six other High Holds to visit. All the same . . .
In unspoken accord F’lar and F’nor left the barracks. The men would follow, unobtrusively, in pairs or singly, to reconnoiter the crafthold and the neater farmholds. The men were as overtly eager to be abroad as F’lar was privately. There had been a time when dragonmen were frequent and favored guests in all the great Holds throughout Pern, from southern Nerat to high Tillek. This pleasant custom, too, had died along with other observances, evidence of the low regard in which the Weyr was presently held. F’lar vowed to correct this.
He forced himself to trace in memory the insidious changes. The Records, which each Weyrwoman kept, were proof of the gradual but perceptible decline, traceable through the past two hundred full Turns. Knowing the facts did not alleviate the condition. And F’lar was of that scant handful in the Weyr itself who did credit Records and ballad alike. The situation might shortly reverse itself radically if the old tales were to be believed.
There was a reason, an explanation, a purpose, F’lar felt, for every one of the Weyr Laws from First Impression to the Firestones, from the grass-free heights to ridge-running gutters. For elements as minor as controlling the appetite of a dragon to limiting the inhabitants of the Weyr. Although why the other five Weyrs had been abandoned F’lar did not know. Idly he wondered if there were Records, dusty and crumbling, lodged in the disused Weyrs. He must contrive to check when next his wings flew patrol. Certainly there was no explanation in Benden Weyr.
“There is industry but no enthusiasm,” F’nor was saying, drawing F’lar’s attention back to their tour of the crafthold.
They had descended the guttered ramp from the Hold into the crafthold proper, the broad roadway lined with cottages up to the imposing stone crafthalls. Silently F’lar noted moss-clogged gutters on the roofs, the vines clasping the walls. It was painful for one of his calling to witness the flagrant disregard of simple safety precautions. Growing things were forbidden near the habitations of mankind.
“News travels fast,” F’nor chuckled, nodding at a hurrying craftsman, in the smock of a baker, who gave them a mumbled good-day. “Not a female in sight”
His observation was accurate. Women should be abroad at this hour, bringing in supplies from the storehouses, washing in the river on such a bright warm day, or going out to the farmholds to help with planting. Not a gowned figure in sight.
“We used to be preferred mates,” F’nor remarked caustically.
“We’ll visit the Clothmen’s Hall first. If my memory serves me . . .”
“As it always does . . .” F’nor interjected wryly. He took no advantage of their blood relationship, but he was more at ease with the bronze rider than most of the dragonmen, the other bronze riders included. F’lar was reserved in a close-knit society of easy equality. He flew a tightly disciplined wing, but men maneuvered to serve under him. His wing always excelled in the Games. None ever floundered in between to disappear forever, and no beast in his wing sickened, leaving a man in dragonless exile from the Weyr, a part of him numb forever.
“L’tol came this way and settled in one of the High Reaches,” F’lar continued.
“L’tol?”
“Yes, a green rider from S’lel’s wing. You remember.”
An ill-timed swerve during the Spring Games had brought L’tol and his beast into the full blast of a phosphine emission from S’lel’s bronze Tuenth. L’tol had been thrown from his beast’s neck as the dragon tried to evade the blast. Another wingmate had swooped to catch the rider, but the green dragon, his left wing crisped, his body scorched, had died of shock and phosphine poisoning.
“L’tol would aid our Search,” F’nor agreed as the two dragonmen walked up to the bronze doors of the Clothmen’s Hall. They paused on the threshold, adjusting their eyes to the dimmer light within. Glows punctuated the wall recesses and hung in clusters above the larger looms where the finer tapestries and fabrics were woven by master craftsmen. The pervading mood was one of quiet, purposeful industry.
Before their eyes had adapted, however, a figure glided to them, muttering a polite if curt request for them to follow him.
They were led to the right of the entrance, to a small office, curtained from the main hall. Their guide turned to them, his face visible in the wallglows. There was that air about that marked him indefinably as a dragonman. But his face was lined deeply, one side seamed with old burn marks. His eyes, sick with a hungry yearning, dominated his face. He blinked constantly.
“I am now Lytol,” he said in harsh voice.
F’lar nodded acknowledgment.
“You would be F’lar,” Lytol said, “and you F’nor. You both have the look of your sire.”
F’lar nodded again.
Lytol swallowed convulsively, the muscles in his face twitching as the presence of dragonmen revived his awareness of exile. He essayed a smile.
“Dragons in the sky! The news spread faster than Threads.”
“Nemorth has laid a female.”
“And Jora dead?” Lytol asked concernedly, his face cleared of its nervous movement for a second. “Hath flew her?”
F’lar nodded.
Lytol grimaced bitterly. “R’gul again, huh?” He stared off in the middle distance, his eyelids quiet but the muscles along his jaw taking up the constant movement. “You have the High Reaches? All of them?” Lytol asked, turning back to the dragonman, a slight emphasis on “all.”
F’lar gave an affirmative nod again.
“You’ve seen the women.” Lytol’s disgust showed through the words. It was a statement, not a question, for he hurried on. “Well, there are no better in all the High Reaches.” His tone expressed utmost disdain. He eased himself down to the heavy table that half-filled one corner of the small room. His hands were clenched so tightly around the wide belt that secured the loose tunic to his body that the heavy leather was doubled.
“You would almost expect the opposite, wouldn’t you?” Lytol continued. He was talking too much and too fast. It would have been insultingly rude in another, lesser man. It was the terrible loneliness of the man’s exile from the Weyr that drove him to garrulity. Lytol skimmed the surfaces with hurried questions he himself answered, rather than dip once into matters too tender to be touched—such as his insatiable need for those of his kind. Yet he was giving the dragonmen exactly the information they needed. “But Fax likes his women comfortably fleshed and docile,” Lytol rattled on. “Even the Lady Gemma has lear
ned. It’d be different if he didn’t need her family’s support. Ah, it would be different indeed. So he keeps her pregnant, hoping to kill her in childbed one day. And he will. He will.”
Lytol’s laughter grated unpleasantly.
“When Fax came to power, any man with wit sent his daughters down from the High Reaches or drew a brand across their faces.” He paused, his countenance dark and bitter memory, his eyes slits of hatred. “I was a fool and thought my position gave me immunity.”
Lytol drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, turning full to the two dragonmen. His expression was vindictive, his voice low and tense.
“Kill that tyrant, dragonmen, for the sake and safety of Pern. Of the Weyr. Of the queen. He only bides his time. He spreads discontent among the other Lords. He—” Lytol’s laughter had an hysterical edge to it now. “He fancies himself as good as dragonmen.”
“There are no candidates then in this Hold?” F’lar said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the man’s preoccupation with his curious theory.
Lytol stared at the bronze rider. “Did I not say it? The best either died under Fax or were sent away. What remains is nothing, nothing. Weak-minded, ignorant, foolish, vapid. You had that with Jora. She—” His jaw snapped shut over his next words. He shook his head, scrubbing his face to ease his anguish and despair.
“In the other Holds?”
Lytol shook his head, frowning darkly. “The same. Either dead or fled.”
“What of Ruath Hold?”
Lytol stopped shaking his head and looked sharply at F’lar, his lips curling in a cunning smile. He laughed mirthlessly.
“You think to find a Torene or a Moreta hidden at Ruath Hold in these times? Well, bronze rider, all of Ruathan Blood are dead. Fax’s blade was thirsty that day. He knew the truth of those harpers’ tales, that Ruathan Lords gave full measure of hospitality to dragonmen and the Ruathan were a breed apart. There were, you know”—Lytol’s voice dropped to a confiding whisper—“exiled Weyrmen like myself in that Line.”
F’lar nodded gravely, unwilling to deprive the man of such a sop to his self-esteem.
