“I shall consider the matter. So shall all my fellow craftsmen,” Fandarel assured the Weyrleader. “To sear Threads from the ground without damaging the soil may not be so easy. There are, it is true, fluids which burn and sear. We use an acid to etch design on daggers and ornamental metals. We of the Craft call it agenothree. There is also the black heavy-water that lies on the surface of pools in Igen and Boll. It burns hot and long. And if, as you say, the Cold Turn made the Threads break into dust, perhaps ice from the coldest northlands might freeze and break grounded Threads. However, the problem is to bring such to the Threads where they fall since they will not oblige us by falling where we want them. . . .” He screwed up his face in a grimace.
F’lar stared at him, surprised. Did the man realize how humorous he was? No, he was speaking with sincere concern. Now the Mastersmith scratched his head, his tough fingers making audible grating sounds along his coarse hair and heat-toughened scalp.
“A nice problem. A nice problem,” he mused, undaunted. “I shall give it every attention.” He sat down, the heavy bench creaking under his weight.
The Masterfarmer raised his hand tentatively.
“When I became Craftmaster, I recall coming across a reference to the sandworms of Igen. They were once cultivated as a protective—”
“Never heard Igen produced anything useful except heat and sand,” quipped someone.
“We need every suggestion,” F’lar said sharply, trying to identify that heckler. “Please find that reference, Craftmaster. Lord Banger of Igen, find me some of those sandworms!”
Banger, equally surprised that his arid Hold had a hidden asset, nodded vigorously.
“Until we have more efficient ways of killing Threads, all Holders must be organized on the ground during attacks, to spot and mark burrows, to set firestone to burn in them. I do not wish any man to be scored, but we know how quickly Threads burrow deep, and no burrow can be left to multiply. You stand to lose more,” and he gestured emphatically at the Holder Lords, “than any others. Guard not just yourselves, for a burrow on one man’s border may grow across to his neighbor’s. Mobilize every man, woman, and child, farm and crafthold. Do it now.”
The Council Room was fraught with tension and stunned reflection until Zurg, the Masterweaver, rose to speak.
“My craft, too, has something to offer . . . which is only fair since we deal with thread every day of our lives . . . in regard to the ancient methods.” Zurg’s voice was light and dry, and his eyes, in their creases of spare, lined flesh, were busy, darting from one face in his audience to another. “In Ruath Hold I once saw upon the wall . . . where the tapestry now resides, who knows?” He slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then at Bargen of the High Reaches who had succeeded to Fax’s title there. “The work was as old as dragonkind and showed, among other things, a man on foot, carrying upon his back a curious contraption. He held within his hand a rounded, sword-long object from which tongues of flame . . . magnificently woven in the orange-red dyes now lost to us . . . spouted toward the ground. Above, of course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes predominating . . . again we’ve lost that true dragon-bronze shade. Consequently I remember the work as much for what we now lack as for its subject matter.”
“A flamethrower?” the Smith rumbled. “A flamethrower,” he repeated with a falling inflection. “A flamethrower,” he murmured thoughtfully, his heavy brows drawn into a titanic scowl. “A thrower of what sort of flame? It requires thought.” He lowered his head and didn’t speak, so engrossed in the required thought that he lost interest in the rest of the discussion.
“Yes, good Zurg, there have been many tricks of every trade lost in recent Turns,” F’lar commented sardonically. “If we wish to continue living, such knowledge must be revived . . . fast. I would particularly like to recover the tapestry of which Master Zurg speaks.”
F’lar looked significantly at those Lords who had quarreled over Fax’s seven Holds after his death.
“It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it appear at Ruatha. Or at Zurg’s or Fandarel’s craft-hall. Whichever is most convenient.”
There was some shuffling of feet, but no one admitted ownership.
“It might then be returned to Fax’s son, who is now Ruatha’s Lord,” F’lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice.
Lytol snorted softly and glowered around the room. F’lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Jaxom, reared by such a cheerless if honest guardian.
“If I may, Lord Weyrleader,” Robinton broke in, “we might all benefit, as your maps prove to us, from research in our own Records.” He smiled suddenly, an unexpectedly embarrassed smile. “I own I find myself in some disgrace for we Harpers have let slip unpopular ballads and skimped on some of the longer Teaching Ballads and Sagas . . . for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.”
F’lar stifled a laugh with a cough. Robinton was a genius.
“I must see that Ruathan tapestry,” Fandarel suddenly boomed out.
“I’m sure it will be in your hands very soon,” F’lar assured him with more confidence than he dared feel. “My Lords, there is much to be done. Now that you understand what we all face, I leave it in your hands as leaders in your separate Holds and crafts how best to organize your own people. Craftsmen, turn your best minds to our special problems: review all Records that might turn up something to our purpose. Lords Telgar, Crom, Ruatha, and Nabol, I shall be with you in three days. Nerat, Keroon, and Igen, I am at your disposal to help destroy any burrow on your lands. While we have the Masterminer here, tell him your needs. How stands your craft?”
“Happy to be so busy at our trade, Weyrleader,” piped up the Masterminer.
Just then F’lar caught sight of F’nor, hovering about in the shadows of the hallway, trying to catch his eye. The brown rider wore an exultant grin, and it was obvious he was bursting with news.
F’lar wondered how they could have returned so swiftly from the Southern Continent, and then he realized that F’nor—again—was tanned. He gave a jerk of his head, indicating that F’nor take himself off to the sleeping quarters and wait.
“Lords and Craftmasters, a dragonet will be at the disposal of each of you for messages and transportation. Now, good morning.”
He strode out of the Council Room, up the passageway into the queen’s weyr, and parted the still swinging curtains into the sleeping room just as F’nor was pouring himself a cup of wine.
“Success!” F’nor cried as the Weyrleader entered. “Though how you knew to send just thirty-two candidates I’ll never understand. I thought you were insulting our noble Pridith. But thirty-two eggs she laid in four days. It was all I could do to keep from riding out when the first appeared.”
F’lar responded with hearty congratulations, relieved that there would be at least that much benefit from this apparently ill-fated venture. Now all he had to figure out was how much longer F’nor had stayed south until his frantic visit the night before. For there were no worry lines or strain in F’nor’s grinning, well-tanned face.
“No queen egg?” asked F’lar hopefully. With thirty-two in the one experiment, perhaps they could send a second queen back and try again.
F’nor’s face lengthened. “No, and I was sure there would be. But there are fourteen bronzes. Pridith outmatched Ramoth there,” he added proudly.
“Indeed she did. How goes the Weyr otherwise?”
F’nor frowned, shaking his head against an inner bewilderment. “Kylara’s . . . well, she’s a problem. Stirs up trouble constantly. T’bor leads a sad time with her, and he’s so touchy everyone keeps a distance from him.” F’nor brightened a little. “Young N’ton is shaping up into a fine wingleader, and his bronze may outfly T’bor’s Orth when Pridith flies to mate the next time. Not that I’d wish Kylara on N’ton . . . or anyone.”
“No trouble then with supplies?”
F’nor laughed
outright. “If you hadn’t made it so plain we must not communicate with you here, we could supply you with fruits and fresh greens that are superior to anything in the north. We eat the way dragonmen should! F’lar, we must consider a supply Weyr down there. Then we shall never have to worry about tithing trains and . . .”
“In good time. Get back now. You know you must keep these visits short.”
F’nor grimaced. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I’m not here in this time, anyway.”
“True,” F’lar agreed, “but don’t mistake the time and come while you’re still here.”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, that’s right. I forget time is creeping for us and speeding for you. Well, I shan’t be back again till Pridith lays the second clutch.”
With a cheerful good-bye, F’nor strode out of the weyr. F’lar watched him thoughtfully as he slowly retraced his steps to the Council Room. Thirty-two new dragons, fourteen of them bronzes, was no small gain and seemed worth the hazard. Or would the hazard wax greater?
Someone cleared his throat deliberately. F’lar looked up to see Robinton standing in the archway that led to the Council Room.
“Before I can copy and instruct others about those maps, Weyrleader, I must myself understand them completely. I took the liberty of remaining behind.”
“You make a good champion, Masterharper.”
“You have a noble cause, Weyrleader,” and then Robinton’s eyes glinted maliciously. “I’ve been begging the Egg for an opportunity to speak out to so noble an audience.”
“A cup of wine first?”
“Benden grapes are the envy of Pern.”
“If one has the palate for such a delicate bouquet.”
“It is carefully cultivated by the knowledgeable.”
F’lar wondered when the man would stop playing with words. He had more on his mind than studying the time-charts.
“I have in mind a ballad which, for lack of explanation, I had set aside when I became the Master of my crafthall,” he said judiciously after an appreciative savoring of his wine. “It is an uneasy song both the tune and the words. One develops, as a harper must, a certain sensitivity for what will be received and what will be rejected . . . forcefully,” and he winced in retrospect. “I found that this ballad unsettled singer as well as audience and retired it from use. Now, like that tapestry, it bears rediscovery.”
After his death C’gan’s instrument had been hung on the Council Room wall till a new Weyrsinger could be chosen. The guitar was very old, its wood thin. Old C’gan had kept it well-tuned and covered. The Masterharper handled it now with reverence, lightly stroking the strings to hear the tone, raising his eyebrows at the fine voice of the instrument.
He plucked a chord, a dissonance. F’lar wondered if the instrument was out of tune or if the harper had, by some chance, struck the wrong string. But Robinton repeated the odd discord, then modulating into a weird minor that was somehow more disturbing than the first notes.
“I told you it was an uneasy song. And I wonder if you know the answers to the questions it asks. For I’ve turned the puzzle over in my mind many times of late.”
Then abruptly he shifted from the spoken to the sung tone.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes away, die unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead,
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?
Where have dragons gone together?
Leaving Weyrs to wind and weather?
Setting herdbeasts free of tether?
Gone, our safeguards, gone but whither?
Have they flown to some new Weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh, why, the empty Weyr?
The last plaintive chord reverberated.
“Of course, you realize that the song was first recorded in the craft annals some four hundred Turns ago,” Robinton said lightly, cradling the guitar in both arms. “The Red Star had just passed beyond attack-proximity. The people had ample reason to be stunned and worried over the sudden loss of the populations of five Weyrs. Oh, I imagine at the time they had any one of a number of explanations, but none . . . not one explanation . . . is recorded.” Robinton paused significantly.
“I have found none recorded, either,” F’lar replied. “As a matter of fact, I had all the Records brought here from the other Weyrs . . . in order to compile accurate attack timetables. And those other Weyr Records simply end—” F’lar made a chopping gesture with one hand. “In Benden’s Records there is no mention of sickness, death, fire, disaster—not one word of explanation for the sudden lapse of the usual intercourse between the Weyrs. Benden’s Records continue blithely, but only for Benden. There is one entry that pertains to the mass disappearance . . . the initiation of a Pern-wide patrol routing, not just Benden’s immediate responsibility. And that is all.”
“Strange,” Robinton mused. “Once the danger from the Red Star was past, the dragons and riders may have gone between to ease the drain on the Holds. But I simply cannot believe that. Our craft Records do mention that harvests were bad and that there had been several natural catastrophes . . . other than the Threads. Men may be gallant and your breed the most gallant of all, but mass suicide? I simply do not accept that explanation . . . not for dragonmen.”
“My thanks,” F’lar said with mild irony.
“Don’t mention it,” Robinton replied with a gracious nod.
F’lar chucked appreciatively. “I see we have been too weyrbound as well as too hidebound.”
Robinton drained his cup and looked at it mournfully until F’lar refilled it.
“Well, your isolation served some purpose, you know, and you handled that uprising of the Lords magnificently. I nearly choked to death laughing,” Robinton remarked, grinning broadly. “Stealing their women in the flash of a dragon’s breath!” He chuckled again, then suddenly sobered, looking F’lar straight in the eye. “Accustomed as I am to hearing what a man does not say aloud, I suspect there is much you glossed over in that Council meeting. You may be sure of my discretion . . . and . . . you may be sure of my wholehearted support and that of my not ineffectual craft. To be blunt, how may my harpers aid you?” and he strummed a vigorous marching air. “Stir men’s pulses with ballads of past glories and success?” The tune, under his flashing fingers, changed abruptly to a stern but determined rhythm. “Strengthen their mental and physical sinews for hardship?”
“If all your harpers could stir men as you yourself do, I should have no worries that, five hundred or so additional dragons would not immediately end.”
“Oh, then despite your brave words and marked charts, the situation is”—a dissonant twang on the guitar accented his final words—“more desperate than you carefully did not say.”
“It may be.”
“The flamethrowers old Zurg remembered and Fandarel must reconstruct—will they tip the scales?”
F’lar regarded this clever man thoughtfully and made a quick decision.
“Even Igen’s sandworms will help, but as the world turns and the Red Star nears, the interval between daily attacks shortens and we have only seventy-two new dragons to add to those we had yesterday. One is now dead and several will not fly for several weeks.”
“Seventy-two?” Robinton caught him up sharply. “Ramoth hatched but forty, and they are still too young to eat firestone.”
F’lar outlined F’nor and Lessa’s expedition, taking place at that moment. He went on to F’nor’s reappearance and warning, as well as the fact that the experiment had been successful in part with the hatching of thirty-two new dragons from Pridith’s first clutch. Robinton caught him up.
“How can F’nor already have returned when you haven’t heard from Lessa and him that there is a breeding place on the Southern Continent?”
“Dragons can go between times as well as places. They go as easily to a when as to a where.”
Robinton’s eyes widened as he digested this astoni
shing news.
“That is how we forestalled the attack on Nerat yesterday morning. We jumped back two hours between time to meet the Threads as they fell.”
“You can actually jump backward? How far back?”
“I don’t know. Lessa, when I was teaching her to fly Ramoth, inadvertently returned to Ruath Hold, to the dawn thirteen Turns ago when Fax’s men invaded from the heights. When she returned to the present, I attempted a between times jump of some ten Turns. To the dragons it is a simple matter to go between times or spaces, but there appears to be a terrific drain on the rider. Yesterday, by the time we returned from Nerat and had to go on to Keroon, I felt as though I had been pounded flat and left to dry for a summer on Igen Plain.” F’lar shook his head. “We have obviously succeeded in sending Kylara, Pridith, and the others ten Turns between, because F’nor has already reported to me that he has been there several Turns. The drain on humans, however, is becoming more and more marked. But even seventy-two more mature dragons will be a help.”
“Send a rider ahead in time to see if it is sufficient,” Robinton suggested helpfully. “Save you a few days’ worrying.”
“I don’t know how to get to a when that has not yet happened. You must give your dragon reference points, you know. How can you refer him to times that have not yet occurred?”
“You’ve got an imagination. Project it.”
“And perhaps lose a dragon when I have none to spare? No, I must continue . . . because obviously I have, judging by F’nor’s returns . . . as I decided to start. Which reminds me, I must give orders to start packing. Then I shall go over the time-charts with you.”
It wasn’t until after the noon meal, which Robinton took with the Weyrleader, that the Masterharper was confident that he understood the charts and left to begin their copying.
Across a waste of lonely tossing sea,
Where no dragonwings had lately spread,