“But I’ve barely looked, and there was trouble adjusting the mechanism,” Sangel complained. Between Oterel’s glare and Groghe trying to shoulder him out of the way, Sangel reluctantly stepped aside.
“Let me adjust the focus for you, Lord Oterel,” Wansor murmured politely.
“Yes, do. I’m not half blind like Sangel there,” the Lord of Tillek said.
“Now, see here, Oterel . . .”
“Fascinating, isn’t it, Lord Sangel?” said Lessa, wondering what reaction the man’s blathering had concealed.
He harumphed irritably, but his eyes were restless and he frowned.
“Wouldn’t call it fascinating, but then I had barely a moment’s look.”
“We’ve an entire night, Lord Sangel.”
The man shivered, pulling his cloak around him though the night air was not more than mildly cool for spring.
“It’s nothing more than a child’s miggsy,” exclaimed the Lord of Tillek. “Fuzzy. Or is it supposed to be?” He glanced away from the eyepiece at Lessa.
“No, my Lord,” Wansor said. “It should be bright and clear, so you can see cloud formations.”
“How would you know?” Sangel asked testily.
“Wansor set the instrument up for this evening’s viewing,” Fandarel pointed out.
“Clouds?” Tillek asked. “Yes, I see them. But what’s the land? The dark stuff or the gray?”
“We don’t know yet,” Fandarel told him.
“Land masses don’t look that way as high as dragons can fly a man,” said P’zar the Fort Weyrleader, speaking for the first time.
“And objects seen at a far greater distance change even more,” Wansor said in the dry tone of someone who does know what he’s talking about. “For example, the very mountains of Fort which surround us change drastically if seen from Ruatha Heights or the plains of Crom.”
“Then all that dark stuff is land?” Lord Oterel had difficulty not being impressed. And discouraged, Lessa thought. Tillek’s Lord Holder must have been hoping to press the extermination of Thread on the Red Star.
“Of that we are not sure,” replied Wansor with no lessening of the authority in his manner. Lessa approved more and more of Wansor. A man ought not be afraid to say he didn’t know. Nor a woman.
The Lord of Tillek did not want to leave the instrument. Almost as if he hoped, Lessa thought, that if he looked long enough, he’d discover a good argument for mounting an expedition.
Tillek finally responded to Nessel of Crom’s acid remarks and stepped aside.
“What do you think is the land, Sangel? Or did you really see anything?”
“Of course I did. Saw the clouds plain as I see you right now.”
Oterel of Tillek snorted contemptuously. “Which doesn’t say much, considering the darkness.”
“I saw as much as you did, Oterel. Gray masses, and black masses and those clouds. A star having clouds! Doesn’t make sense. Pern has clouds!”
Hastily Lessa changed her laugh at the man’s indignation to a cough, but she caught the Harper’s amused look and wondered what his reaction to the Red Star would be. Would he be for, or against this expedition? And which attitude did she want him to express?
“Yes, Pern has clouds,” Oterel was saying, somewhat surprised at that observation. “And if Pern has clouds, and more water surface than land, then so does the Red Star . . .”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Sangel protested.
“And there’ll be a way of distinguishing land from water, too,” Oterel went on, ignoring the Boll Lord. “Let me have another look, there, Nessel,” he said, pushing the Crom Lord out of the way.
“Now, wait a minute there, Tillek.” And Nessel put a proprietary hand on the instrument. As Tillek jostled him, the tripod tottered and the distance-viewer, on its hastily rigged swivel, assumed a new direction.
“Now you’ve done it,” Oterel cried. “I only wanted to see if you could distinguish the land from the water.”
Wansor tried to get between the two Lords so that he could adjust his precious instrument.
“I didn’t get my full turn,” Nessel complained, trying to keep physical possession of the distance-viewer.
“You’ll not see anything, Lord Nessel, if Wansor cannot have a chance to sight back on the Star,” Fandarel said, politely gesturing the Crom Lord out of the way.
“You’re a damned wherry fool, Nessel,” Lord Groghe said, pulling him to one side and waving Wansor in.
“Tillek’s the fool.”
“I saw enough to know there’s not as much dark as there is that gray,” Oterel said, defensively. “Pern’s more water than land. So’s the Red Star.”
“From one look you can tell so much, Oterel?” Meron’s malicious drawl from the shadows distracted everyone.
Lessa moved pointedly aside as he strolled forward, stroking his bronze lizard possessively. It affronted Lessa that the little creature was humming with pleasure.
“It will take many observations, by many eyes,” Fandarel said in his bass rumble, “before we will be able to say what the Red Star looks like with any certitude. One point of similarity is not enough. Not at all.”
“Oh, indeed. Indeed.” Wansor seconded his Craftmaster, his eyes glued to the piece as he slowly swung it across the night sky.
“What’s taking you so long?” Nessel of Crom demanded irritably. “There’s the Star. We can all see it with our naked eyes.”
“And it is so easy to pick out the green pebble you drop on the sands of Igen at high noon?” asked Robinton.
“Ah. I’ve got it,” Wansor cried. Nessel jumped forward, reaching for the tube. He jerked his hand back, remembering what an unwise movement could do. With both hands conspicuously behind him, he looked again at the Red Star.
Nessel, however, did not remain long at the distance-viewer. When Oterel stepped forward, the Masterharper moved quicker.
“My turn now, I believe, since all the Lord Holders have had one sighting.”
“Only fair,” Sangel said loudly, glaring at Oterel.
Lessa watched the Masterharper closely, saw the tightening of his broad shoulders as he, too, felt the impact of that first sight of their ancient enemy. He did not remain long, or perhaps she was deceived, but he straightened slowly from the eyepiece and looked thoughtfully toward the Red Star in the dark heavens above them.
“Well, Harper?” asked Meron superciliously. “You’ve a glib word for every occasion.”
Robinton regarded the Nabolese for a longer moment than he had the Star.
“I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us.”
“Ha! I thought as much.” Meron was grinning with odious triumph.
“I wasn’t aware you thought,” Robinton remarked quietly.
“What do you mean, Meron?” Lessa asked in a dangerously edged voice, “you thought as much?”
“Why, it should be obvious,” and the Lord of Nabol had not tempered his attitude toward her much since his first insult. “The Harper does as Benden Weyr decrees. And since Benden Weyr does not care to exterminate Thread at source . . .”
“And how do you know that?” Lessa demanded coldly.
“And, Lord Nabol, on what grounds do you base your allegation that the Harper of Pern does as Benden Weyr decrees? For I most urgently suggest that you either prove such an accusation instantly or retract it.” Robinton’s hand was on his belt knife.
The bronze lizard on Meron’s arm began to hiss and extend
his fragile wings in alarm. The Lord of Nabol contented himself with a knowing smirk as he made a show of soothing his lizard.
“Speak up, Meron,” Oterel demanded.
“But it’s so obvious. Surely you can all see that,” Meron replied with malicious affability and a feigned surprise at the obtuseness of the others. “He has a hopeless passion for—the Benden Weyrwoman.”
For a moment Lessa could only stare at the man in a stunned daze. It was true that she admired and respected Robinton. She was fond of him, she supposed. Always glad to see him and never bothering to disguise it but—Meron was mad. Trying to undermine the country’s faith in dragonmen with absurd, vicious rumors. First Kylara and now . . . And yet Kylara’s weakness, her promiscuity, the general attitude of the Hold and Craft toward the customs of the Weyrs made his accusation so plausible . . .
Robinton’s hearty guffaw startled her. And wiped the smile from Nabol’s face.
“Benden’s Weyrwoman has not half the attraction for me that Benden’s wine has!”
There was such intense relief in the faces around her that Lessa knew, in a sinking, sick way, that the Lord Holders had been halfway to believing Meron’s invidious accusation. If Robinton had not responded just as he had, if she had started to protest the accusation . . . She grinned, too, managed to chuckle because the Masterharper’s fondness for wine, for the Benden wines in particular, was such common knowledge, it was more plausible than Meron’s slander. Ridicule was a better defense than truth.
“Furthermore,” the Harper went on, “the Masterharper of Pern has no opinion, one way or another, about the Red Star—not even a verse. Because that—that—child’s miggsy scares him juiceless and makes him yearn for some of that Benden wine, right now, in limitless quantity.” Robinton had not the slightest trace of laughter in his voice now. “I’m too steeped in the history and lore of our beloved Pern, I’ve sung too many ballads about the evil of the Red Star to want to get any closer to it. Even that—” and he pointed to the distance-viewer, “brings it far too near me. But the men who have to fight Thread day after day, Turn after Turn, can look upon it with less fearfulness than the poor Harper. And, Meron, Lord Holder of Nabol, you can wager every field and cot and hall upon your lands that the dragonmen of every Weyr would like to be quit of any obligation to keep your hide Threadfree—even if it means wiping Thread from every squared length of that Star.” The vehemence in the Harper’s voice caused Meron to take a backward step, to clap a hand on the violently agitated fire lizard. “How can you, any of you,” and the Harper’s opprobrium fell equally now on the other four Lords, “doubt that the dragonriders wouldn’t be as relieved as you to see the end of their centuries of dedication to your safety. They don’t have to defend you from Thread. You, Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Oterel, you all ought to realize that by now. You’ve had T’kul to deal with, and T’ron.