The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century (72 page)

“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.”

T
HE 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 each 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?…” and he slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then 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 towards 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 discussions.

“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 Hold Lords who had quarreled over Fax’s seven Holds after that usurper’s death in Ruatha’s Great Hall.

“It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it appear at Ruatha, at Zurg’s or Fandarel’s Crafthall. Whichever is most convenient.”

There was some shuffling of feet but no admission of ownership.

“It might then be returned to Fay’s son who is now Ruatha’s Lord,” F’lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice.

Lytol, Ruatha’s Warder, snorted softly and glowered round the room. F’lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Gaxom, reared by such a cheerless, if scrupulously 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 Sagas…for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.”

F’lar stifled a laugh. Robinton was a genius.

“I must see the 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 which 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.

J
UST 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, which outmatches Ramoth there,” he added proudly.

“Indeed it does. 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! Really, 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.”

“Hm-m-m? 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?

S
OMEONE 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, I think it bears rediscovery.”

A
FTER 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 were out of tune or if the Harper had, by some chance, struck the wrong string. But Robinton repeated the odd dischord, then modulated 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 roll 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 that 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 graciously.

F’lar chuckled appreciatively. “I see we have been too weyrbound as well as too hidebound.”

R
OBINTON 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 and 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?”