“No, he’s been knifed between his top and bottom,” Lessa answered with a sour glance at her Weyrmate. “And it is with exceptional difficulty that I can keep him in a chair. He belongs in a bed.”
F’lar waved her recriminations aside good-humoredly.
“If you’re—” F’nor half-rose, his face concerned.
“If you’re—” mocked F’lar, his look indicating a growing irritation with his disability and their protectiveness.
F’nor laughed, reseating himself. “And Brekke said I was a cantankerous patient. Ha! How bad is it? I heard various tales about that duel, well embroidered already, but not that you’d been clipped. Must it always be belt knives—for our Blood? And the other man armed with a wherry-skewer?”
“And dressed in wherhide,” Lessa added.
“Look, F’lar, Brekke has pronounced me fit to fly between,” and F’nor flexed his arm, fully but carefully. “I can appreciate your wanting to keep quiet about your injury, so I’ll do all your popping about”
F’lar chuckled at his half-brother’s eagerness. “Back a-neck and ready to go, huh? Well, resume your responsibilities then, They’ve changed.”
“Noticeably, O exalted one.”
F’lar frowned at that and brushed his forelock back irritably.
“Not that much. Did you see T’kul when he arrived from High Reaches at Southern?”
“No, nor did I want to. I heard him.” F’nor’s right hand clenched. “The fighting wings had already gone to join you at Igen for the Threadfall. T’kul ordered everyone, including the wounded, out of Southern in an hour’s time. What they couldn’t pack and take, he confiscated. He made it clear that the southern continent was his to have and hold. That his sweepriders were challenging any dragon and would flame them down like Thread if they didn’t get the proper response. Some of those Oldtimer dragons are stupid enough to do it, too.” F’nor paused. “You know, I’ve been noticing lately . . .”
“Did the Fort Weyr people arrive?”
“Yes, and Brekke checked T’ron to be sure he’d survived the trip.” F’nor scowled.
“He’ll live?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Good. Now, I rather suspected that T’kul would react in that fashion. To be sure we’ve all of Igen, Ista and Southern Boll as breeding ground for fire lizards, but I want you to get Manora to rig you something for those other lizard eggs you found and bring them back here. We need every one we can find. Where’s your little queen? They go back to their first feeding place, you know . . .”
“Grall? She’s with Canth, of course. She heard Ramoth grumbling on the Hatching Ground.”
“Hmm, yes. Fortunately, those eggs’ll hatch soon.”
“Going to invite all Pern’s notables as you did before the Oldtimers got stuffy?”
“Yes,” F’lar replied so emphatically that F’nor pretended alarm. “That courtesy did more good than harm. It’ll be standard procedure at all the Weyrs now.”
“And you’ve talked the Leaders into assigning riders to Hold and Hall?” F’nor’s eyes gleamed when F’lar nodded.
“Can you slip through whatever patrol T’kul has mounted in Southern?” F’lar asked.
“No problem. There isn’t a bronze there that Canth can’t outfly. Which reminds me . . .”
“Good. I’ve two errands for you. Pick up those fire-lizard eggs and, do you remember the coordinates for the Threadfall in the western swamp?”
“Of course, but I wanted to ask you . . .”
“You saw the grub life in the soil there?”
“Yes . . .”
“Ask Manora for a tightly covered pot I want you to bring me back as many of those grubs as you can. Not a pleasant job, I know, but I can’t go myself and I don’t want this—ah—project discussed.”
“Grubs? A project?”
Mnementh bellowed a welcome.
“I’ll explain later,” F’lar said, gesturing toward the weyr entrance.
F’nor shrugged as he rose. “I’ll fly the hazard, O inscrutable one!” Then he laughed as F’lar glared at him in angry reproach. “Sorry. Like the rest of Pern—the north, that is—I trust you.” He gave them both a jaunty salute and left.
“The day F’nor doesn’t tease you I’ll start to worry,” Lessa said, encircling his neck with her arms. She laid her cheek against his for an instant. “It’s T’bor,” she added, moving away just as the new High Reaches Weyrleader strode in.
The man looked as if he hadn’t slept enough but he carried his shoulders back and his head high which made the Benden Weyrleader more aware of the worried and wary expression on his face.
“Kylara’s—” F’lar began, remembering that she and Meron had been gabbling together all the last night.
“Not Kylara. It’s that T’kul who thought himself such a great Weyrleader,” T’bor said with utter disgust. “As soon as we brought our people up from Southern, I had the wings do a sweep check, really more to familiarize themselves with the coordinates than anything else. By the first Egg, I don’t like seeing anyone run from dragonmen. Run. And hide!” T’bor sat down, automatically taking the cup of klah Lessa handed him. “There wasn’t a watch fire or a watchman. But plenty of burn sign. I don’t see how that much Thread could have got through. Not even if smokeless weyrlings were riding the sweep. So I dropped down to Tillek Hold and asked to see Lord Oterel.” T’bor gave a low whistle. “That was some greeting I got, I want to tell you. I nearly had an arrow through my belly before I convinced the guard captain that I wasn’t T’kul. That I was T’bor and there’d been a change of Leaders at the Weyr.”
T’bor took a deep breath. “It took time to calm Lord Holder Oterel down to the point where I could tell him what had happened. And it seemed to me,” and the Southerner looked nervously first at Lessa and then at F’lar, “that the only way to restore his confidence was to leave him a dragon. So—I left him a bronze and stationed two greens in those minor Holds along the Bay. I also left weyrlings at vantage heights along the Tillek Hold range. Then I asked Lord Oterel to accompany me to Lord Bargen’s Hold at High Reaches. I’d a good idea I might not get past his guard at all. Now, we’d six eggs left over from that clutch Toric of the Seahold unearthed and so—I gave two each to the Lords and two to the Master-fisherman. It seemed the only thing to do. They’d heard Lord Meron had one—at Nabol Hold.” T’bor straightened his shoulders as if to endure F’lar’s opprobrium.
“You did the right thing, T’bor,” F’lar told him heartily. “You did exactly the right thing. You couldn’t have done better!”
“To assign riders to a Hold and a Craft?”
“There’ll be riders in all Holds and Crafts before the morning’s over,” F’lar grinned at him.
“And D’ram and G’narish haven’t objected?” T’bor glanced at Lessa, incredulous.
“Well,” Lessa began, and was saved from answering by the arrival of the other Weyrleaders.
D’ram, G’narish and the Wing-second from Telgar Weyr entered first, with P’zar, the acting Weyrleader from Fort, very close behind them. The Telgar Weyr Wing-second introduced himself as M’rek, Zigeth’s rider. He was a lanky, mournful-looking man, with sandy hair, about F’lar’s age. As they settled themselves at the big table, F’lar tried to read D’ram’s mood. He was the crucial one still, the oldest of the remaining Oldtimers and, if he’d cooled down from the stimulus of yesterday’s tumultuous events and had changed his mind after sleeping, the proposal F’lar was about to suggest might die a-hatching. F’lar stretched his long legs under the table, trying to make himself comfortable.
“I asked you here early because we had little chance to talk last night, M’rek, how’s R’mart?”
“He rests easily at Telgar Hold, thanks to the riders from Ista and Igen.” M’rek nodded gravely to D’ram and G’narish.
“How many at Telgar Weyr wish to go south?”
“About ten, but they’re old riders. Do more harm than good, feeding nonsen
se to the weyrlings. Speaking of nonsense, Bedella came back from Telgar Hold with some mighty confusing stories. About us going to the Red Star and fire lizards and talking wires. I told her to keep quiet. Telgar Weyr’s in no shape to listen to that kind of rumor.”
D’ram snorted and F’lar looked at him quickly, but the Istan leader’s head was turned toward M’rek. F’lar caught Lessa’s eye and nodded imperceptibly.
“There was talk about an expedition to the Red Star,” F’lar replied in a casual tone. Apprehension made the Telgar Weyr man’s face more mournful than ever. “But there’re more immediate undertakings.” F’lar straightened cautiously. He couldn’t get comfortable. “And the Lord Holders and other craftsmen will be here soon to discuss them. D’ram, tell me frankly, do you object to placing riders in Holds and Crafthalls while we can’t pattern Thread—that is, until we can find another reliable form of quick communication?”