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“My what? I’m coming . . .” The Harper’s long legs brought him quickly into the room by the end of the sentence. From the smiles of those standing by the flasks of decanted wine, the Harper had no trouble guessing what was afoot.
“Ah! You think to catch me out!” he cried, dramatically gesturing at the wine. “Well, I’m sure I can manage to maintain my reputation here! Just as long as you’ve marked the flasks correctly, Lytol.”
Lessa laughed and picked one up, exhibiting her choice to the assembled. She poured a glass of the deep red wine and held it out to Robinton. Aware that all eyes were on him, Robinton made his approach to the table, affecting a slow swaggering step. His eyes caught Menolly’s and she gave him the barest wink, completely at her ease now in such prestigious company. Like the little white dragon, she was ready to fly on her own. She had certainly come a long Turn from the unsure, unappreciated girl of an isolated SeaHold. He really must get her out of the Harper Hall now and on her own.
Robinton made a proper show of wine-tasting, since this was obviously expected of him. He examined the color of the wine in the sunlight that streamed into the room, sniffed deeply of its aroma, then sipped ever so delicately and made a huge business of swishing the wine in his mouth.
“Hmmm, yes, well. There’s no trouble in recognizing this vintage,” he said, a shade haughtily.
“Well?” Lord Groghe demanded, his thick fingers twitching a bit on the broad belt in which he had hooked his thumbs. He rocked on his booted feet with impatience.
“One never hastens a wine!”
“Either you know or you don’t,” Sangel said with a skeptical sniff.
“Of course I know it. It’s the Benden pressing of eleven Turns back, isn’t it, Lytol?”
Robinton, aware of the silence in the room, was surprised by the look on Lytol’s face. Surely the man couldn’t still be upset about Jaxom flying the little dragon, could he? No, the muscle twitch had gone from his cheek.
“I’m right,” Robinton said, drawling as he pointed an accusing finger at the Lord Warder. “And you know it, Lytol. To be precise, this is the later pressing as the wine is nicely fruity. Furthermore, this is from the first Benden shipment you managed to wheedle out of old Lord Raid, on the strength of Lessa’s Ruathan Blood.” He altered his voice to imitate Lytol’s heavy baritone. “ ‘The Weyrwoman of Pern must have Benden wine when she visits her former Hold.’ Am I not right, Lytol?”
“Oh, you’re right on all counts,” Lytol admitted with what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “About wines, Master Harper, you’re infallible.”
“What a relief!” F’lar said, clapping the Harper on the shoulder. “I could never have borne your loss of reputation, Robinton.”
“It is a proper wine to celebrate this occasion. I give you all Jaxom, young Lord of Ruatha Hold and proud rider of Ruth.” Robinton knew he’d put a dragon among wherries with his words, but there was no point hiding from the fact that, though Jaxom was Lord-elect of Ruatha Hold, he was also and undeniably a dragonrider. Lord Sangel cleared his throat abruptly before taking the required sip. Lessa’s scowl suggested she’d rather he made any other toast just then.
Then, after clearing his throat a second time, Sangel jumped in as Robinton had hoped he would. “Yes, about that, there must be some understanding as to how much of a dragonrider young Jaxom is to be. I was given to understand at his Hatching,” Sangel waved his hand in the vague direction of the stables, “that the little creature was not likely to survive. Only reason I didn’t protest at the time.”
“We didn’t deliberately mislead you, Lord Sangel,” Lessa began in a testy voice.
“There will be no problem, Sangel,” said F’lar diplomatically. “We’ve no shortage of large dragons in the Weyr. So he isn’t needed to fight.”
“We’ve no shortage of trained, Blooded men to take Hold here, either,” Sangel said, shooting his jaw out belligerently. Trust old Sangel to come to the point, thought Robinton gracefully.
“Not with Ruathan Blood,” Lessa said, her gray eyes flashing. “The whole point of my relinquishing my blood right to this Hold when I became Weyrwoman was to cede it to the one remaining male with any Ruathan Blood in his veins—Jaxom! As long as I live, I will not permit Ruatha, of all the Holds on Pern, to be the prize for continent-wide blood duels among younger sons. Jaxom remains as Lord Holder-elect of Ruatha; he will never be a fighting dragonrider.”
“Just like to set matters straight,” Sangel said, stepping aside to avoid the icy stare Lessa gave him. “But you’ve got to admit, Weyrwoman, that riding dragons, no matter in how limited a fashion, can be dangerous. Heard about that weyrling at High Reaches . . .”
“Jaxom’s riding will be controlled at all times,” F’lar promised. He threw a warning glance at N’ton. “He will never fly to fight the Thread. The danger would be too great.”
“Jaxom is naturally a cautious lad,” Lytol joined the debate, “and I’ve made him properly aware of his responsibilities.”
Robinton saw N’ton’s grimace.
“Too cautious, N’ton?” asked F’lar, who had also noticed the Fort Weyrleader’s expression.
“Perhaps,” N’ton replied tactfully, with an apologetic nod to Lytol. “Or perhaps, inhibited is a better description. No offense meant, Lytol, but I noticed today that the lad finds himself . . . isolated from others. Having his own dragon accounts for part of it, I’m sure. Since no lads his age have been allowed a chance to Impress fire-lizards, the hold boys have no appreciation of his problems.”
“Dorse been nagging him again?” Lytol asked, pulling at his lower lip as he regarded N’ton.
“Then you’re not unaware of the situation?” N’ton appeared relieved.
“Certainly not. It’s one reason I myself have pressed you, F’lar, to permit the boy to fly. He would then be able to visit the Holds which have boys his age and rank.”
“But surely you’ve fosterlings?” Lessa cried, looking about the room as if she had somehow overlooked the presence of Holder younglings.
“I was about to arrange a half-Turn fostering for Jaxom when he Impressed.” Lytol spread one hand to indicate an end to that plan.
“I can’t support the notion of Jaxom leaving Ruatha for fostering,” Lessa said with a frown. “Not when he’s the last of the Bloodline . . .”
“Nor do I,” Lytol said, “but it is necessary to reciprocate in fostering—”
“ ‘Tis not,” Lord Groghe said, clapping Lytol on the shoulder. “In fact, it’s a blessing not to. I’ve a lad Jaxom’s age to be fostered. Be a relief not to have to take another boy back. When I see what you’ve done to put Ruatha back on its feet and so prosperous, Lytol, the lad would learn from you how to Hold properly. That is, if there should be anything for him to Hold when he gets his majority.”
“That’s another matter I’d like to broach,” Lord Sangel said, stepping up to F’lar with a glance at Groghe for support. “What are we Holders to do?’
“To do?” asked F’lar, momentarily perplexed.
“With the younger sons,” Robinton said smoothly, “for whom there are no more holds to manage in South Boll, Fort, Ista, and Igen—to name the Lords with the largest families of hopeful sons.”
“The Southern Continent, F’lar, when can we start opening the Southern Continent?” Groghe asked. “That Toric, who stayed behind in the Southern Hold, maybe he could use a strong, active, energetic, ambitious lad or two, or three?”
“The Oldtimers are in the Southern Continent,” Lessa said sternly. “They can do no one harm there, since the land is protected by grubs.”
“I hadn’t forgotten where the Oldtimers are, Weyrwoman,” Groghe remarked, raising his eyebrows. “Best place for ’em, they don’t bother us, they do what they want, without making honest folk suffer.” There was a commendable lack of acrimony in Groghe’s tone, Robinton noticed, considering how badly Fort Hold had suffered from T’ron’s irresponsible conduct of Fort Weyr. “Point is,
Southern’s a fair size, grubbed, too, so it doesn’t matter if the Oldtimers fly Thread or not, no real damage can be done.”
“Have you ever remained outside your Hold during Threadfall?” F’lar asked Lord Groghe.
“Me? No! What d’you think I am, crazy? Not but what that gaggle of young men, fighting at the drop of a glove . . . Mind you, it’s fists they fight with and I keep all weapons blunted, but their noise is enough to drive me between or outside . . . Oh, I take your point, Weyrleader,” Groghe added gloomily and his fingers did a rapid dance on his broad belt. “Yes, makes it difficult, doesn’t it? We’re not geared to live holdless, are we? Toric’s not looking to increase his Holding at all? Something’s got to be done about the youngbloods. Not just in my Hold, either, eh, Sangel?”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Robinton broke in quickly when he saw F’lar hesitating. Considering the alacrity with which F’lar gestured him to proceed, he appeared grateful for the Harper’s interruption. “Well, half a Turn ago, Lord Groghe’s fifth son Benelek had an idea to improve a harvesting implement. The Fort Smithcraftmaster suggested that Fandarel ought to be interested. Indeed the good Mastersmith was. Young Benelek went to Telgar for special instruction and also talked one of the High Reaches’ sons into joining him, that lad also having a mechanical bent. To shorten the tale, there are now eight Holder sons at the Smithcraft Hall, and three Crafthold boys who show an equal talent for the Smith’s craft.”
“What are you suggesting, Robinton?”
“Mischief needs idle hands. I’d like to see a special group of young people, recruited from all Crafts and Holds, exchanging ideas instead of insults.”
Groghe grunted. “They want land to hold, not ideas. What about Southern?”
“That solution can surely be investigated,” Robinton said, treating Groghe’s insistence as offhandedly as he dared. “The Oldtimers won’t live forever.”
“In truth, Lord Groghe, we’re by no means against expanding Holds in the Southern,” F’lar said. “It’s just that . . .”
“The time must be chosen,” Lessa finished when he faltered. There was a curious gleam in her eyes that suggested to the Harper she had other reservations as well.
“We’ll not have to wait until the end of this Pass, I hope,” Sangel said peevishly.
“No, just until we are in no danger of dishonoring our word,” F’lar said. “If you’ll think back, the Weyrs have agreed to explore the Southern Continent . . .”
“The Weyrs agreed to get rid of Thread and the Red Star, too,” Sangel said, irritated now.
“F’nor here and Canth still bear the scars of that Star,” Lessa reminded him, indignant at having the Weyrs criticized.
“Meaning no offense, Weyrwoman, F’lar, F’nor,” Sangel said, mumbling and not very subtly masking his annoyance.
“Another reason why it might be salutary to have young minds trained to discover new ways of doing things,” Robinton said, smoothly diverting Lord Sangel.
Robinton was no end pleased at Sangel’s attitude. He’d reminded F’lar and Lessa recently that the older Lord Holders persisted in believing that the dragonriders could, if they would put their minds to it, char Thread at its source on the Red Star and end forever the menace that kept people hold-fast, Mention, however, he deemed sufficient and quickly changed the subject.
“My archivist, Master Arnor, is going blind from trying to decipher eroding Record hides. He does well, but sometimes I think he doesn’t at all understand what it is he is saving and thus unwittingly miscopies blurred words. Fandarel has commented on this problem, too. He’s of the firm opinion that some of the mysteries from those old Records stem from miscopying. Now, if we had copyists who knew the discipline—”
“I’d like Jaxom to have some training that way,” Lytol said.
“I was hoping you’d suggest him.”
“Don’t go back on your offer to take my son, Lytol,” Groghe said.
“Well, if Jaxom’s . . .”
“I see no reason why both solutions cannot be used,” Robinton said. “We’d have boys his own age and rank fostering here where Jaxom must learn to Hold, but Jaxom would also learn skills with others of different rank and background.”
“After the famine, a feast?” N’ton said in so low a voice that only Robinton and Menolly heard him. “And speaking of feasts, here’s our honored guest!”
Jaxom stood, hesitating, on the threshold, remembering his manners sufficiently to swing a bow to the assembled.
“Ruth’s settled, has he, Jaxom?” Lessa asked in a kind voice, gesturing the boy to come to her side.
“Yes, Lessa.”
“Some other settling’s been done, too, kinsman,” she went on, smiling when she saw his apprehensive look.
“You know my son, Horon, don’t you? Your age?” Groghe asked.
Jaxom nodded, startled.
“Well, he’s going to foster here as company for you.”
“And possibly some other lads,” said Lessa. “Would you like that?”
Robinton noticed the incredulous widening of Jaxom’s eyes as he glanced from Lessa to Groghe and back to Lytol where his glance remained until Lytol had nodded solemnly.
“And, when Ruth is flying well, how about coming to my Hall to see what I can teach you about Pern that Lytol doesn’t know?” Robinton asked.
“Oh, sir,” and Jaxom looked again to his guardian, “may I really do all this?” There was unadulterated relief and joy in Jaxom’s voice.
CHAPTER II
Benden Weyr, Present Pass, 13th Turn
DUSK WAS SETTLING in Benden Weyr as Robinton climbed the stairs to the queen’s weyr, something he had done so many times in the past thirteen Turns. He paused as much to catch his breath as to speak to the man just behind him.
“We’ve timed it well, Toric. I don’t think anyone noticed our arrival. And they’ll certainly not question N’ton,” he said gesturing to the Fort Weyrleader dimly seen crossing the Bowl to the lighted kitchen caverns.
Toric wasn’t looking at him. He was staring up at the ledge where bronze Mnementh was seated on his haunches, regarding the new arrivals, his jewel-faceted eyes gleaming in the dim light. Robinton’s Zair reacted by digging his claws sharply into the Harper’s ear and twining his tail more tightly about his neck.
“He won’t hurt you, Zair,” Robinton said, but he hoped the message would also satisfy the Southern Holder whose face and bearing were taut with surprise.
“He’s almost twice as big as any of the Oldtimers’ beasts,” Toric said in a respectfully hushed voice. “And I thought N’ton’s Lioth was big!”
“I believe that Mnementh’s the largest bronze,” Robinton said, continuing up the last few steps. He was concerned by that twinge in his chest. He’d have thought that all his recent and unexpected rest would have eased that condition. He must remember to speak to Master Oldive about it. “Good evening, Mnementh,” he said as he reached the top step, inclining his body toward the great bronze. “It strikes me as disrespectful to barge by without acknowledging him,” he said in an aside to Toric. “And this is my friend, Toric, whom Lessa and F’lar are expecting.”
I know. I have told them you are come.
Robinton cleared his throat. He never expected an answer to his pleasantries but was always extremely flattered on those occasions when Mnementh responded. However, he did not share the dragon’s comment with Toric. The man seemed unnerved enough as it was.
Toric moved quickly toward the short corridor, keeping Robinton between himself and bronze Mnementh.
“I’d better warn you,” Robinton said, keeping amusement out of his voice, “that Ramoth’s even larger!”
Toric’s response was a grunt which dissolved into a gasp as the corridor opened up into the large rocky chamber which served as the home of Benden’s queen. She was asleep on her stone couch, her wedge-shaped head pointing in their direction, gleaming golden in the glows that illuminated the weyr.
“Ro
binton, you are indeed safely back,” Lessa cried, running toward him, a wide smile lighting her unusual face. “And so tanned!”
To the Harper’s delighted surprise, she threw her arms about him in a brief and totally unexpected embrace.
“I should get storm-lost more often,” he managed to say in a light tone, grinning as raffishly as he could with his heart pounding in his chest. Her body had been so vibrant, so light against him.
“Don’t you dare!” She flashed him a look compounded of anger, relief and outrage, then her mobile face assumed a more dignified smile for the other guest. “Toric, you are very welcome here, and thank you for rescuing our good Masterharper.”
“I did nothing,” Toric said, surprised. “He’d a dollop of pure unadulterated good luck. He ought to have drowned in that gale.”
“Menolly’s not a Seaholder’s daughter for naught,” the Harper said, clearing his throat as he remembered those grim hours. “She kept us afloat. Though at one point, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to stay alive!”
“You’re not a good seaman, then, Robinton?” F’lar asked with a laugh. He gripped the Southerner’s arm in greeting and with his left hand gave the Harper an affectionate crack on the arm.
Robinton suddenly realized that his adventure had had disturbing repercussions in this Weyr. He was both gratified and chagrined. True, at the time of the gale, he’d been far too occupied with his rebellious stomach to think beyond surviving the next wave that crashed over their little boat. Menolly’s skill had kept him from realizing the acute danger they were in. Afterward he had come to appreciate their position and wondered if Menolly had suppressed her own fear lest she lose honor in his eyes. She’d gone about her seamanship, managing to save most of the wind-torn sail, rigging a sea anchor, lashing him to the mast as he’d been made weak by nausea and retching.
“No, F’lar, I’m no seaman,” Robinton said now, with a shudder. “I’ll leave that to those born to the craft.”
“And follow their advice,” Toric warned, somewhat tartly. He turned to the Weyrleaders. “He’s got no weather sense either. And, of course, Menolly didn’t realize the strength of the Western Stream at this time of the year.” He raised his shoulders to indicate his helplessness against such stupidity.
