Dragongirl (8 page)

“We’ll have a hot lunch soon,” Terin said as she plopped down next to F’jian. The bronze rider smiled at her and tousled her hair affectionately. She batted his hand away, snarling, “Not now or I’ll have you scrubbing up.” She glanced toward Fiona. “So what now, weyrwoman?”

“Seban?” Fiona called over to the ex-dragonrider. “Do you think you and Bekka are up for a tour?”

The young girl looked up from the boiling pot, her eyes alight.

Fiona stepped over to them, gesturing for the cooking glove. “Terin and I can handle the cooking, I need you two to get to know people here.” She glanced challengingly at Bekka. “How many people do you think you can meet in the next two hours?”

“Two hours?” Bekka repeated thoughtfully, before breaking into a huge grin. “Why
all
of them, Weyrwoman!”

“As many as you can would be fine by me,” Fiona told her with a smile and a glance at Seban, who gave her a somber nod of assurance. As the two started out into the Weyr Bowl, Fiona called after them, “Don’t forget, we’ll be having lunch in the Dining Cavern, let everyone know!”

“The Dining Cavern hasn’t enough tables set out for that many people,” Terin observed quietly.

“Well then, get some riders to pull out the extra tables,” Fiona replied. “Besides, it’s not so much the eating they’ll need as the assurance.”

“I’d say you’re right there, Weyrwoman,” Norik agreed from his place nearby. He was hovering over a small slate, a stick of chalk hanging limply in one hand. He still hadn’t written a single word.

F’jian noticed and walked over to him. “Would this do,” he asked respectfully, opening his mouth and singing quietly in a soft tenor voice:

They flew for their Weyr
They flew for their Hold
They flew who knows where
They’re lost, those so bold
.

“It’s a start,” Norik agreed after a moment of awestruck silence. He bent to the slate. “What were the first words again, bronze rider?”

Fiona forced herself out of her chair rather than let the writing of Telgar’s dirge to be a further reason to put off her conversation with H’nez.

H’nez glanced up at her approach and carefully worked her in to the conversation he was having with the youngsters, nodding toward her and saying, “And this is Weyrwoman Fiona. She was holder bred, her father was the Lord Holder of Fort Hold. Does anyone remember his name from the Teaching Ballads?”

A number of hands shot up and H’nez pointed to an older boy.

“Lord Holder Bemin,” the boy replied promptly.

“Very good,” H’nez said. “And what’s your name?”

“Belivan,” the boy replied proudly. “My father is—was—” his eyes fell “—a brown rider.”

“My father rode a blue,” a younger girl piped up.

“And mine a green,” another sobbed.

“They must have been great riders,” Fiona said.

The children nodded in agreement.

“And they did their duty to Weyr, Hold, and Craft,” H’nez added smoothly. They all nodded once again. “And so, tonight, we will honor them.”

I
t didn’t take much coaxing from Terin to get some of the older children to start helping her around the Kitchen even if they were, at first, more nuisance than aid. Some knew where the stores were and others knew where the cooking pots were kept and still another group knew where the spices were placed.

Satisfied that Terin had them well in hand, Fiona made her way to the back corridor to search out the holders of the lower level. Before she did, however, she found a few moments alone with H’nez.

“Seban has reminded me that you are the senior rider here,” Fiona said. H’nez nodded, his expression blank. “So, until Talenth rises, you have the duties of the Weyrleader.”

Again, the tall, lanky bronze rider nodded.

“There’s a Fall in three days’ time,” H’nez said. “Lower Telgar.”

“I’m sure that we can get help.”

“We’ll need to visit the Holds and Crafts before then,” H’nez observed. “To let them know that they are protected.”

“We should go to the Smithcrafthall and see if we can get some of those new flamethrowers,” Fiona said.

H’nez nodded in agreement.

“But our most immediate concern is housing our dragons and riders,” he said.

“They could stay in the Hatching Grounds,” Fiona suggested.

H’nez shook his head. “That would make their stay here seem temporary, and it would probably upset the weyrfolk.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“It is a custom of Fort Weyr,” H’nez began slowly, “to settle the remains of a lost dragon and rider as quickly as possible, then reallocate their weyr.”

“But they’ve just lost so many!” Fiona cried in horror at the thought.

“I don’t know what the tradition is here,” H’nez told her. “We should find out and honor it.”

“I could look in the Records …” Fiona trailed off as she realized what that would entail: entering the Weyrwoman’s quarters.

“I could come with you, if you’d like,” H’nez offered.

Fiona shook her head reflexively. “It’s my job.”

“Then, I’ll leave you to it,” H’nez said, turning back to the Kitchen Cavern. He paused just a moment, before turning back and asking, “You’ll inform the other bronzes?”

He meant their riders. Fiona nodded, sent a quick message to Talenth who sent it on to the Zirenth and Ladirth.

“I’ve told them.”

H’nez paused a moment longer, seeming about to say something, then turned and strode away purposefully on his long, lanky legs.

As she made her way farther into the dark corridors behind the Kitchen Cavern, she heard a gitar being strummed in a slow mournful tune: Norik practicing his ballad.

She turned to where, at Fort Weyr, there were the larger teaching and play rooms. She was rewarded with the sound of voices in the distance and increased her pace, thinking back to when she had met Xhinna Turns past and yet not so long ago.

As she saw the dim light of glows softly filling the corridor, she drew herself up, prepared to make a grand entrance, in the tradition impressed upon her by her father.

She took a step, and stopped. These people are hurting, she thought, letting her shoulders settle. They want words of comfort, not grand displays.

She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, then walked into the room. Silence fell but Fiona pretended not to notice, her father’s words echoing in her head, “Leaders lead.”

She spoke quickly to the women inside, who were clustered about in small groups, some working at tables, some dandling babies, others just sitting quietly, bereft. She told them who she was, assured them that Telgar would recover, that she rode a queen who would rise soon, and that they should be prepared for the noon meal and a wake in the evening.

“My man, L’rat, what’s to become of his things?” a woman asked quietly from the far corner. She was dark-haired, with dark, shiny eyes and brilliant teeth. To Fiona, she seemed like one with trader blood.

“They’ll be handled in the usual way, when a rider is lost,” Fiona assured her.

“How soon will your riders want to move in?” another woman demanded.

“Your
riders,” Fiona replied, “are here already and need quarters now.”

“So who’ll clean out near five hundred weyrs?” the short, dark-haired woman demanded.

“Hush, Shaneese, that’s no way to talk!” the other woman chided her.

“You’ve quarters of your own, Vikka, so you’ve no concern,” Shaneese retorted, “but others lived with their mates and it’ll take more than one afternoon to find new quarters.”

“I’m not throwing anyone out,” Fiona declared sternly. “Shaneese, can you get me a list of those who live in the weyrs?”

The short woman eyed her warily for a moment before giving her a stiff nod.

“Good,” Fiona said. “There are only forty riders now, so it should be possible to find them accommodations without displacing any families.” She glanced toward the woman named Vikka. “You have quarters of your own?”

“Aye, Weyrwoman,” Vikka said with a curt nod. “I’m storeswoman and need to be close to the main gates.”

“How are we for stores?”

“Oh, we’ll not run out for a long time, Weyrwoman!” Vikka declared, with a hard to read expression on her face. “D’gan was good at providing for the Weyr.”

Someone snorted derisively and Fiona glanced in the direction of the noise to spot a tall, blond woman who looked back furtively.

“Weyrleader D’gan believed in the rights of the Weyr,” Vikka explained to Fiona. She jerked her head toward the blond woman. “Tevora was a crafter’s daughter before …”

Fiona felt a moment of revulsion for the dead Weyrleader. She glanced at Tevora with renewed interest.

“Which craft?” she asked her quietly.

“Smith,” Tevora said with a snivel. “I was taken—”

“It’s an honor to be brought to the Weyr!” Shaneese snarled.

“It’s an honor when you want to go!” Tevora snapped back, advancing on the smaller woman angrily.

“No one stays at the Weyr against their will,” Fiona said, glancing around the room for any signs of similarly mistreated women.

“So you say!” Tevora shot back angrily.

“Yes,” Fiona told her calmly. “So I say.” She glanced around the room. “We’re cooking lunch, and we’ll have a proper mourning this evening, please tell everyone.”

Some of the quieter women looked up hopefully at that.

“It will take time to heal, I know,” Fiona told them. “And things will change, as they do whenever there’s a new Weyrleader.”

“And who would our Weyrleader be?” Shaneese asked, none too politely.

“For the time being, the senior bronze rider is H’nez of Fort Weyr,” Fiona replied. She cocked her head toward the Weyr Bowl. “My Talenth has reached three Turns—”

“Three Turns!” Vikka exclaimed, brows furrowed. “I don’t recall a Talenth in the Ballads for Fort.”

“She was of Melirth’s last clutch,” Fiona explained. “We went back in time to Igen, and remained there for three Turns to allow our weyrlings time to mature.”

“So she’ll rise any day now,” Vikka said with a knowing nod.

“And then what?” Shaneese demanded. The other women in the room looked at her with various displays of anger or irritation but she brushed them off, continuing, “The sickness, has a cure been found?”

Fiona shook her head.

“So how long before your dragons start coughing?” Shaneese persisted. “How long before they die?” Her gaze bore into Fiona as she added, “Will your queen even last long enough to clutch?”

“Shaneese!” Vikka exclaimed, bearing down angrily on the smaller woman. To Fiona she said, “You must forgive her, Weyrwoman, she so loved her L’rat.”

“There’s no forgiveness necessary,” Fiona said, forcing herself to remain calm despite the black-haired woman’s onslaught. She glanced at Shaneese. “Kindan and Lorana at Benden Weyr have been working on a cure.”

“Lorana?” Shaneese repeated. “The one who lost her queen?” She snorted in derision. “Why should she want to help others?”

“Kindan lost Koriana and still he found a cure during the Plague,” Vikka replied. She glanced back to Fiona in dawning recognition. “You’re Koriana’s sister, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Fiona said, forcing herself to speak over the lump in her throat. “So I know something of Kindan and I tell you, he won’t let us down.”

Something changed in Shaneese’s manner as she absorbed this. “I see,” she said. “Well, I hope he’s quick because I’m not sure I can handle another dragon dying.”

“Where can I find the headwoman?” Fiona asked, deciding that she had said enough here and it was time to continue her tour.

“That’d be me,” Shaneese said. “At least it was until this morning.”

“If you want to step down, I understand,” Fiona said, recovering quickly from her surprise. She glanced over to Tevora. “When I go to the Smithcrafthall, I can bring you, if you’d like.”

Tevora glanced up nervously, then shook her head. “They probably think I’m dead.”

A mousy-haired woman reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “You are good with metal, Tevora, we could certainly use you here.”

“Dedelia, keep an eye on her,” Shaneese said to the mousy-haired woman. She glanced around the room and started calling out names. “Go help in the kitchen.”

To Fiona she said, “Come on, Weyrwoman.” As she bustled out, she glanced over her shoulder and said to Dedelia, “And get them back to work, there’s clothes to be washed and mended, not to mention the weaving that’s been let go this morning.”

“A
nd, finally, here’s the medicinal storeroom,” Shaneese said as she completed their tour of the first level of the Weyr. She glanced inside and nodded to herself as she spotted two women working, bent over jars and measuring sets. “The stocks are complete, we want for nothing.”

“We want for nothing” seemed to be a catchphrase for Shaneese and Telgar Weyr. Fiona was amazed at the amount of goods amassed in the storage rooms, at the quality of fabrics, hides, and metals that were on hand for the Weyr’s use.

“Say what you want about D’gan, he never let the Weyr be shorted,” Shaneese said as she took in Fiona’s expression. She called to the two women, “This is Fiona, she’s the new Weyrwoman.”

“If a small girl comes running in here all out of breath asking for any herbals or medicinals, give them to her,” Fiona told the two older women. One of them gave her a surprised look. “Her name’s Bekka and she doesn’t sleep. Her father is Seban, who until recently rode blue Serth. She’s agreed to come here as healer in training.”

“Healer in training?” Shaneese looked at Fiona in surprise. “She’ll either learn quick or we’ll all be for it.”

“She doesn’t sleep,” Fiona repeated with a smile. “She reads, she’ll learn.”

“How many Turns has she, then?” Shaneese asked.

“She has twelve Turns,” Fiona said. At Shaneese’s skeptical look she added, “My headwoman at Igen had ten Turns.”

“That’s starting them young!” one of the herbal women exclaimed.

“‘Needs must when Thread Falls,’” Fiona replied, quoting the old saying. “My ‘old’ headwoman, Terin, came with me; she’s cooking our lunch.”