“Now hang on. If this is an old corridor, sooner or later it’ll run out. Into a dead end, or into the main section. It’s got to.”
“But how do you know you’re going in the right direction?”
“I don’t, but it’s better than sitting on my rump getting hungrier.” With one hand on the wall, the other clinging to Felessan’s belt, Jaxom moved on.
They couldn’t have walked more than twe
nty paces before Jaxom’s fingers stumbled over the crack. An even crack, running perpendicular to the floor.
“Hey, warn a guy!” cried Felessan, who had bumped into him.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A crack up and down, evenly.” Excitedly Jaxom stretched both arms out, trying to find the other side of what might even be a doorway.
At shoulder height, just beyond the second cut, he found a square plate and, in examining it, pressed. With a rumbling groan, the wall under his other hand began to slide back and light came up on the other side.
The boys had only a few seconds to stare at the brightly lit wonders on the other side of the threshold before the inert gas with which the room had been flooded rushed out to overcome them. But the light remained a beacon to guide the searchers.
“I had the entire Hold mustered this morning, only to find him in the bowels of the Hold itself where a rockfall had barred his way,” Lytol said to Lessa as he watched the boys running toward the Lower Cavern.
“You’ve forgotten your own boyhood then,” F’lar laughed, gesturing courteously for Lytol to proceed him to the weyr. “Or didn’t you explore the back corridors as a weyrling?”
Lytol scowled and then gave a snort, but he didn’t smile. “It was one thing for me. I wasn’t heir to the Hold.”
“But, Lytol, heir to the Hold or not,” Lessa said, taking the man’s arm, “Jaxom’s a boy, like any other. No, now please, I am not criticizing. He’s a fine lad, well grown. You may be proud of him.”
“Carries himself like a Lord, too,” F’lar ventured to say.
“I do my best”
“And your best is very well indeed,” Lessa said enthusiastically. “Why, he’s grown so since the last time I saw him!”
But the tic started in Lytol’s cheek and Lessa fumed, wondering what Mardra had been complaining about in the boy lately. That woman had better stop interfering . . . Lessa caught herself, grimly reminded that she could be accused of interfering right now, having invited Jaxom here on a visit. When Mardra heard that Lytol had been to Benden Weyr . . .
“I’m glad you think so,” Lytol replied, confirming Lessa’s suspicions.
Harper Robinton rose to greet Lytol, and the Mastersmith Fandarel’s face broke into the almost feral expression that passed as his smile. While F’lar seated them, Lessa poured wine.
“The new train is in, Robinton, but not settled enough to serve,” she said, grinning down at him. It was a private joke that Robinton visited Benden more for the wine than for companionship or business. “You’ll have to make do with last year’s tithe.”
“Benden wine is always acceptable to me,” Robinton replied suavely, using the compliment as an excuse to take a sip.
“I appreciate your coming, gentlemen,” F’lar began, taking charge of the meeting. “And I apologize for taking you from your business at such short notice, but I . . .”
“Always glad to come to Benden,” Robinton murmured, his eyes twinkling as he tipped his cup again.
“I have news for you so I was glad of this opportunity,” Fandarel rumbled.
“And I,” Lytol said in a dark voice, the tic moving agitatedly.
“My news is very serious and I need to know your reactions. There has been premature Threadfall . . .” F’lar began.
“Threadfalls,” Robinton corrected him with no vestige of his previous levity. “The drumroll brought me the news from Tillek and Crom Holds.”
“I wish I’d as reliable messengers,” F’lar said bitterly, gritting his teeth. “Didn’t you question the Weyrs’ silence, Robinton?” He had counted the Harper his friend.
“My Craft is weyrbound to Fort, my dear F’lar,” the Craftmaster replied, an odd smile on his lips, “although Weyrleader T’ron does not appear to follow custom in keeping the Master Harper advised of auspicious events. I had no immediate, or privy way to bespeak Benden Weyr.”
F’lar took a deep breath; Robinton confirmed the fact that T’ron had not known. “T’kul saw fit not to inform the other Weyrleaders of the unscheduled Fall in Tillek Hold.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” the Harper murmured cynically.
“We learned only today that R’mart was so badly injured in the Fall at Crom Hold that he couldn’t dispatch any messengers.”
“You mean, that numbwitted Weyrwoman Bedella forgot to,” Lessa interjected.
F’lar nodded and went on. “The first Benden knew of this was when Thread fell in Lemos northeast, midmorning, when the table indicated southwest and evening. Because I always send a rider on ahead to act as messenger for any last moment problems, we were able to reach Lemos before the leading Edge.”
Robinton whistled with appreciation.
“You mean, the timetables are wrong?” Lytol exclaimed. All the color had drained from his swarthy face at the news. “I thought that rumor had to be false.”
F’lar shook his head grimly; he’d been watching for Lytol’s reaction to this news.
“They’re not accurate any more; they don’t apply to this shift,” he said. “Lessa reminded me, as I do you, that there have been deviations in the Red Star’s passage that cause long intervals. We must assume that something can cause a change in the rhythm of the Fall as well. As soon as we can gauge a pattern again, we’ll correct the tables or make new ones.”
Lytol stared at him uncomprehendingly. “But how long will it take you? With three Falls, you ought to have some idea now. I’ve acres of new plantings, forests. How can I protect them when I can’t be sure where Thread will fall?” He controlled himself with an effort. “I apologize but this is—this is terrible news. I don’t know how the other Lord Holders will receive it on top of everything else.” He took a quick drink of wine.
“What do you mean, on top of everything else?” F’lar asked, startled.
“Why, the way the Weyrs are behaving. That disaster in Esvay valley in Nabol, those plantations of Lord Sangel’s.”
“Tell me about the Esvay Valley and Lord Sangel.”
“You hadn’t heard that either?” Robinton asked in real surprise. “Don’t the Weyrs talk to one another?” And he glanced from F’lar to Lessa.
“The Weyrs are autonomous,” F’lar replied. “We don’t interfere . . .”
“You mean, the Oldtimers keep exchanges with us contemporary radicals to a bare minimum,” Lessa finished, her eyes flashing indignantly. “Don’t scowl at me, F’lar. You know it’s true. Though I’m sure D’ram and T’ron were as shocked as we were that T’kul would keep premature Threadfall a secret. Now, what happened at Esvay Vale and in Lord Sangel’s Southern Boll?”
It was Robinton who answered her in an expressionless voice. “Several weeks back, T’kul refused to help Meron of Nabol clear some furrows from wooded slopes above the Esvay valley. Said it was the job of the ground crews and Meron’s men were lazy and inefficient. The whole valley had to be fired in order to stop the burrows’ spreading. Lytol sent help; he knows. I went to see some of the families. They’re holdless now and very bitter about dragonmen.
“A few weeks later, Weyrleader T’ron left Southern Boll Hold without clearing with Lord Sangel’s groundchief. They had to burn down three adult plantations. When Lord Sangel protested to T’ron, he was told that the wings had reported the Fall under control.
“On another level but disturbing in the over-all picture, I’ve heard of any number of girls, snatched on the pretext of Search . . .”
“Girls beg to come to the Weyr,” Lessa put in tartly.
“To Benden Weyr, probably,” Robinton agreed. “But my harpers tell me of unwilling girls, forced from their babes and husbands, ending as drudges to Weyrladies. There is deep hatred building, Lady Lessa. There has always been resentment, envy, because weyrlife is different and the ease with which dragonriders can move across the continent while lesser folk struggle, the special privileges riders enjoy—” The Harper waved his hands. “The Oldtimers really believe in special
privilege, and that exacerbates the dangers inherent in such outdated attitudes. As for matters in the Crafthalls, the belt knife incident at Fandarel’s is a very minor item in the list of depredations. The crafts generously tithe of their products, but Weaver Zurg and Tanner Belesden are bitterly disillusioned now by the stiff rate of additional levies.”
“Is that why they were so cool to me when I asked for gown material?” Lessa asked. “But Zurg himself helped me choose.”
“I fancy that no one at Benden Weyr abuses privilege,” Robinton replied. “No one at Benden Weyr. After all,” and he grinned toothily, managing to resemble T’ron as he did so, “Benden is the backsliding Weyr which has forgotten true custom and usage, become lax in their dealings. Why, they permit Holds bound to Benden Weyr to retain dignity, possession and forest. They encourage the Crafts to proliferate, hatching bastard breeds of who-knows-what. But Benden Weyr,” and Robinton was himself again, and angry, “is respected throughout Pern.”
“As a dragonrider, I ought to take offense,” F’lar said, so disturbed by this indictment that he spoke lightly.
“As Benden’s Weyrleader, you ought to take charge,” Robinton retorted, his voice ringing. “When Benden stood alone, seven Turns ago, you said that the Lord Holders and Craftsmen were too parochial in their views to deal effectively with the real problem. They at least learned something from their mistakes. The Oldtimers are not only incurably parochial, but worse—adamantly inflexible. They will not, they cannot adapt to our Turn. Everything we accomplished in the four hundred Turns that separate our thinking is wrong and must be set aside, set back for their ways, their standards. Pern has grown—is growing and changing. They have not. And they are alienating the Lord Holders and Craftsmen so completely that I am sincerely concerned—no, I’m scared—about the reaction to this new crisis.”
“They’ll change their minds when Thread falls unexpectedly,” Lessa said.
“Who will change? The Weyrleaders? The Holders? Don’t count on it, Lady Lessa.”
“I have to agree with Robinton,” Lytol said in a tired voice. “There’s been precious little cooperation from the Weyrs. They’re overbearing, wrongheaded and demanding. I find that I, Lytol, ex-dragonrider, resent any more demands on me as Lytol, Lord Warder. And now it appears they are incapable even of doing their job. What, for instance, can be done right in the present crisis? Are they willing to do anything?”