«L'tol would aid our Search,» F'nor agreed as the two dragonmen walked up to the bronze doors of the Clothmen's Hall. They paused on the threshold, adjusting their eyes to the dimmer light within. Glows punctuated the wall recesses and hung in clusters above the larger looms where the finer tapestries and fabrics were woven by master craftsmen. The pervading mood was one of quiet, purposeful industry.
Before their eyes had adapted, however, a figure glided to them, muttering a polite if curt request for them to follow nun.
They were led to the right of the entrance, to a small office, curtained from the main hall. Their guide turned to them, his face visible in the wallglows. There was that air about him that marked him indefinably as a dragonman. But his face was lined deeply, one side seamed with old burn marks. His eyes, sick with a hungry yearning, dominated his face. He bunked constantly.
«I am now Lytol,» he said in harsh voice.
F'lar nodded acknowledgment.
«You would be F'lar,» Lytol said, «and you F'nor. You both have the look of your sire.»
F'lar nodded again.
Lytol swallowed convulsively, the muscles in his face twitching as the presence of dragonmen revived his awareness of exile. He essayed a smile.
«Dragons in the sky! The news spread faster than Threads.»
«Nemorth has laid a female.»
«And Jora dead?» Lytol asked concernedly, his face cleared of its nervous movement for a second. «Hath flew her?»
F'lar nodded.
Lytol grimaced bitterly. «R'gul again, huh?» He stared off in the middle distance, his eyelids quiet but the muscles along his jaw taking up the constant movement. «You have the High Reaches? All of them?» Lytol asked, turning back to the dragonman, a slight emphasis on «all.»
F'lar gave an affirmative nod again.
«You've seen the women.» Lytol's disgust showed through the words. It was a statement, not a question, for he hurried on. «Well, there are no better in all the High Reaches.» His tone expressed utmost disdain. He eased himself down to the heavy table that half-filled one comer of the small room. His hands were clenched so tightly around the wide belt that secured the loose tunic to his body that the heavy leather was doubled.
«You would almost expect the opposite, wouldn't you?» Lytol continued. He was talking too much and too fast. It would have been insultingly rude in another, lesser man. It was the terrible loneliness of the man's, exile from the Weyr that drove him to garrulity. Lytol skimmed the surfaces with hurried questions he himself answered, rather than dip once into matters too tender to be touched-such as his insatiable need for those of his kind. Yet he was giving the dragonmen exactly the information they needed. «But Fax likes his women comfortably fleshed and docile,» Lytol rattled on. «Even the Lady Gemma has learned. It'd be different if he didn't need her family's support. Ah, it would be different indeed. So he keeps her pregnant, hoping to kill her in childbed one day. And he will. He will.»
Lytol's laughter grated unpleasantly.
«When Fax came to power, any man with wit sent his daughters down from the High Reaches or drew a brand across their faces.» He paused, his countenance dark and bitter memory, his eyes slits of hatred. «I was a fool and thought my position gave me immunity.»
Lytol drew himself up, squaring his shoulders, turning full to the two dragonmen. His expression was vindictive, his voice low and tense.
«Kill that tyrant, dragonmen, for the sake and safety of Pern. Of the Weyr. Of the queen. He only bides his time. He spreads discontent among the other Lords. He-« Lytol's laughter had an hysterical edge to it now. «He fancies himself as good as dragonmen.»
«There are no candidates then in this Hold?» F'lar said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the man's preoccupation with his curious theory.
Lytol stared at the bronze rider. «Did I not say it? The best either died under Fax or were sent away. What remains is nothing, nothing. Weak-minded, ignorant, foolish, vapid. You had that with Jora. She-« His jaw snapped shut over his next words. He shook his head, scrubbing his face to ease his anguish and despair.
«In the other Holds?»
Lytol shook his head, frowning darkly. «The same. Either dead or fled.»
«What of Ruatha Hold?»
Lytol stopped shaking his head and looked sharply at F'lar, his lips curling in a cunning smile. He laughed mirthlessly.
«You think to find a Torene or a Moreta hidden at Ruatha Hold in these times? Well, bronze rider, all of Ruathan Blood are dead. Fax's blade was thirsty that day. He knew the truth of those harpers' tales, that Ruathan Lords gave full measure of hospitality to dragonmen and the Ruathan were a breed apart. There were, you know»-Lytol's voice dropped to a confiding whisper-«exiled Weyrmen like myself in that Line.»
F'lar nodded gravely, unwilling to deprive the man of such a sop to his self-esteem.
«No, there is little, very little left in Ruatha Valley.» Lytol chuckled softly. «Fax gets nothing from that Hold but trouble.» This reflection restored Lytol to a semblance of normal behavior, and his face twisted into a better humor. «We of this Hold are now the best clothmen in all Pern. And our smithies turn out a better tempered weapon.» His eyes sparkled with pride in his adopted community. «The conscripts from Ruatha tend to die of curious diseases or accidents. And the women Fax used to take . . .» His laugh was nasty. «It is rumored he was impotent for months after.»
F'lar's active mind jumped to a curious conclusion. «There are none of the Blood left?»
«None!»
«Any families in the holdings with Weyr blood?»
Lytol frowned, glanced in surprise at F'lar. He rubbed the scarred side of his face thoughtfully.
«There were,» he admitted slowly. «There were. But I doubt if any live on.» He thought a moment longer, then shook his head emphatically. «There was such resistance at the invasion and no quarter given. At the Hold Fax beheaded ladies as well as babes. And he imprisoned or executed any known to have carried arms for Ruatha.»
F'lar shrugged. The idea had been a probability only. With such severe reprisals. Fax undoubtedly had eliminated the resistance as well as the best craftsmen. That would account for the poor quality of Ruathan products and the emergence of the High Reaches' clothmen as the best in their trade.
«I wish I had better news for you, dragonman,» Lytol murmured.
«No matter,» F'lar reassured him, one hand poised to part the hanging in the doorway.
Lytol came up to him swiftly, his voice urgent.
«Heed what I say about Fax's ambitions. Force R'gul, or whoever is Weyrleader next, to keep watch on the High Reaches.»
«Is Fax aware of your leanings?»
The haunted, hungry yearning crossed Lytol's face. He swallowed nervously, answering with no emotion in his voice.
«That would not signify if it suited the Lord of the High Reaches, but my guild protects me from persecution. I am safe enough in the craft. He is dependent on the proceeds of our industry.» He snorted, mocking. «I am the best weaver of battle scenes. To be sure,» he added, cocking one eyebrow waggishly, «dragons are no longer woven in the fabric as the comrades of heroes. You noticed, of course, the prevalence of growing greens?»
F'lar grimaced his distaste. «That is not all we have noted, either. But Fax keeps the other traditions. . . .»
Lytol waved this consideration aside. «He does that because it is basic military sense. His neighbors armed after he took Ruatha, for he did it by treachery, let me tell you. And let me warn you also»-Lytol jabbed a finger in the direction of the Hold-«he scorns openly at tales of the Threads. He taunts the harpers for the stupid nonsense of the old ballads and has banned from their repertoire all dragonlore. The new generation will grow up totally ignorant of duty, tradition, and precaution.»
F'lar was not surprised to hear that on top of Lytol's other disclosures, although it disturbed him more than anything else he had heard. Other men, too, denied the verbal transmissions of historic events, accounting them no more than the maunderings of harpers. Yet the Red Star pulsed in the sky, and the time was drawing near when they would hysterically re-avow the old allegiances in fear for their very lives.
«Have you been abroad in the early morning of late?» asked F'nor, grinning maliciously.
«I have,» Lytol breathed out in a hushed, choked whisper. «I have. » A groan was wrenched from his guts, and he whirled away from the dragonmen, his head bowed between hunched shoulders. «Go,» he said, gritting his teeth. And, as they hesitated, he pleaded, «Go!»
F'lar walked quickly from the room, followed by F'nor. The bronze rider crossed the quiet dim Hall with long strides and exploded into the startling sunlight. His momentum took him into the center of the square. There he stopped so abruptly that F'nor, hard on his heels, nearly collided with him.
«We will spend exactly the same time within the other Halls,» he announced in a tight voice, his face averted from F'nor's eyes. F'lar's throat was constricted. It was difficult suddenly for him to speak. He swallowed hard, several times.
«To be dragonless . . .» murmured F'nor pityingly. The encounter with Lytol had roiled his depths in a mournful way to which he was unaccustomed. That F'lar appeared equally shaken went far to dispel F'nor's private opinion that his half brother was incapable of emotion.
«There is no other way once First Impression has been made. You know that,» F'lar roused himself to say curly. He strode off to the Hall bearing the leather-men's device.
CHAPTER III
Honor those the dragons heed,
In thought and favor, word and deed,
Worlds are lost or worlds are saved
From those dangers dragon'braved.
Dragonman, avoid excess;
Greed will bring the Weyr distress;
To the ancient Laws adhere,
Prospers thus the Dragonweyr.
F'lar was amused . . . and unamused. This was their fourth day in Fax's company, and only F'lar's firm control on self and wing was keeping the situation from exploding into violence.
It had been a turn of chance, F'lar mused, as Mnementh held his leisurely glide toward the Breast Pass into Ruatha, that he, F'lar, had chosen the High Reaches. Fax's tactics would have been successful with R'gul, who was very conscious of his honor, or S'lan or D'nol, who were too young to have developed much patience or discretion. S'lel would have retreated in confusion, a course nearly as disastrous for the Weyr as combat.
He should have correlated the indications long ago. The decay of the Weyr and its influence did not come solely from the Holding Lords and their folk. It came also from within the Weyr, a result of inferior queens and incompetent Weyrwomen. It came from R'gul's inexplicable insistence on not «bothering» the Holders, on keeping dragonmen within the Weyr. And yet within the Weyr there had been too much emphasis on preparation for the Games until the internal competition between wings had become the be-all and end-all of Weyr activity.
The encroachment of grass had not come overnight, nor had the Lords awakened one morning recently and decided in a flash not to give all their traditional tithe to the Weyr. It had happened gradually and had been allowed, by the Weyr, to continue, until the purpose and reason of the Weyr and dragonkind had reached this low ebb, where an upstart, collateral heir to an ancient Hold could be so contemptuous of dragonmen and the simple basic precautions that kept Pern free of Threads.
F'lar doubted that Fax would have attempted such a program of aggression against neighboring Holds if the Weyr had maintained its old prominence. Each Hold must have its Lord to protect valley and folk from the Threads. One Hold, one Lord-not one Lord claiming seven Holds. That was against ancient tradition, and evil besides, for how well can one man protect seven valleys at once? Man, except for dragonman, can be in only one place at a time. And unless a man was dragon-mounted, it took hours to get from one Hold to another. No Weyrman of old would have permitted such flagrant disregard of ancient ways.
F'lar saw the gouts of flame along the barren heights of the Pass, and Mnementh obediently altered his glide for a better view. F'lar had sent half the wing ahead of the main cavalcade. It was good training for them to skim irregular terrain. He had issued small pieces of firestone with instructions to sear any growths as practice. It would do to remind Fax, as well as his troops, of the awesome ability of dragonkind, a phenomenon the common folk of Pern appeared to have all but forgotten.
The fiery phosphine emissions as the dragons belched forth gasses showed the pattern well flown. R'gul could argue against the necessity of firestone drills, he could cite such incidents as that which had exiled Lytol, but F'lar kept the tradition-and so did every man who flew with him, or they left the wing. None failed him.
F'lar knew that the men reveled as much as he' did in the fierce joy of riding a flaming dragon; the fumes of phosphine were exhilarating in their own way, and the feeling of power that surged through the man who controlled the might and majesty of a dragon had no parallel in human experience. Dragonriders were forever men apart once First Impression had been made. And to ride a fighting dragon, blue, green, brown, or bronze, was worth the risks, the unending alertness, the isolation from the rest of mankind.
Mnementh dipped his wings obliquely to slide through the narrow cleft of the Pass that led from Crom to Ruatha. No sooner had they emerged from the cut than the difference between the two Holds was patent.
F'lar was stunned. Through the last four Holds he had been sure that the end of the Search lay within Ruatha.
There had been that little brunette whose father was a clothman in Nabol, but . . . And a tall, willowy girl with enormous eyes, the daughter of a minor Warder in Crom, yet . . . These were possibilities, and had F'lar been S'lel or K'net or D'nol, he might have taken the two in as potential mates, although not likely Weyrwomen.
But throughout he had reassured himself that the real choice would be found to the south. Now he gazed on the ruin that was Ruatha, his hopes dispersed. Below him, he saw Fax's banner dip in the sequence that requested his presence.
Mastering the crushing disappointment he felt, he directed Mnementh to descend. Fax, roughly controlling the terrified plunging of his earthbound mount, waved down into the abandoned-looking valley.
«Behold great Ruatha of which you had such hopes,» he enjoined sarcastically.
F'lar smiled coolly back, wondering how Fax had divined that. Had F'lar been so transparent when he had suggested Searching the other Holds? Or was it a lucky guess on Fax's part?
«One sees at a glance why goods from the High Reaches are now preferred,» F'lar made himself reply. Mnementh rumbled, and F'lar called him sharply to order. The bronze one had developed a distaste bordering on hatred for Fax. Such antipathy in a dragon was most unusual and of no small concern to F'lar. Not that he would have in the least regretted Fax's demise, but not at Mnementh's breath.
«Little good comes from Ruatha,» Fax said in a voice that was close to a snarl. He jerked sharply at the bridle of his beast, and fresh blood colored the foam on its muzzle. The creature threw its head backward to ease the painful bar in its mouth, and Fax savagely smote it a blow between the ears. The blow, F'lar observed, was not intended for the poor, protesting beast but for the sight of unproductive Ruatha. «I am the overlord. My proclamation went unchallenged by any of the Blood. I am in my rights. Ruatha must pay its tribute to its legal overlord.»
«And hunger the rest of the year,» F'lar remarked dryly, gazing out over the wide valley. Few of its fields were plowed. Its pastures supported meager herds. Even its orchards looked stunted. Blossoms that had been so profuse on trees in Crom, the next valley over, were sparse, as if reluctant to flower in so dismal a place. Although the sun was well up, there seemed to be no activity in the farmholds or none near enough to
be observed. The atmosphere was one of sullen despair.
«There has been resistance to my rule of Ruatha.» F'lar shot a look at Fax, for the man's voice was fierce, his face bleak, auguring further unpleasantness for Ruathan rebels. The vindictiveness that colored Fax's attitude toward Ruatha and its rebels was tinged with another strong emotion which F'lar had been unable to identify but which had been very apparent to him from the first time he had adroitly suggested this tour of the Holds. It could not be fear, for Fax was clearly fearless and obnoxiously self-assured. Revulsion? Dread? Uncertainty? F'lar could not label the nature of Fax's compound reluctance to visit Ruatha, but the man had not relished the prospect and now reacted violently to being within these disturbing boundaries.
«How foolish of the Ruathans,» F'lar remarked amiably. Fax swung around on him, one hand poised above his sword hilt, eyes blazing. F'lar anticipated with a feeling close to pleasure that the usurper Fax might actually draw on a dragonman! He was almost disappointed when the man controlled himself, took a firm hold on the reins of his mount, and kicked it forward to a frantic run.
«I shall kill him yet,» F'lar said to himself, and Mnementh spread his wings in concord.
F'nor dropped beside his bronze leader.
«Did I see him about to draw on you?» F'nor's eyes were bright, his smile acid.
«Until he remembered I was mounted on a dragon.»
«Watch him, bronze rider. He means to kill you soon.»
«If he can!»
«He's considered a vicious fighter,» F'nor advised, his smile gone.
Mnementh flapped his wings again, and F'lar absently stroked the great, soft-skinned neck.
«I am at some disadvantage?» F'lar asked, stung by F'nor's words.
«To my knowledge, no,» F'nor said quickly, startled. «I have not seen him in action, but I don't like what I have heard. He kills often, with and without cause.»
«And because we dragonmen do not seek blood, we are not to be feared as fighters?» snapped F'lar. «Are you ashamed of being what you were bred?»
«I, no!» F'nor sucked in his breath at the tone of his leader's voice. «And others of our wing, no! But there is that in the attitude of Fax's men that . . . that makes me wish some excuse to fight.»
«As you remarked, we will probably have that fight. There is something here in Ruatha that unnerves our noble overlord.»
Mnementh and now Canth, F'nor's brown, extended their wings, flapping to catch their riders' attention.
F'lar stared as the dragon slewed his head back toward his rider, the great eyes gleaming like sunstruck opals.
«There is a subtle strength in this valley,» F'lar murmured, gathering the import of the dragon's agitated message.
«A strength, indeed; even my brown feels it,» F'nor replied, his face lighting.
«Careful, brown rider,» F'lar cautioned. «Careful. Send the entire wing aloft. Search this valley. I should have realized. I should have suspected. It was all there to be evaluated. What fools have dragonmen become!»
CHAPTER IV
The Hold is barred, The Hall is bare,
And men vanish.
The soil is barren, The rock is bald.
All hope banish.
Lessa was shoveling ashes from the hearth when the agitated messenger staggered into the Great Hall. She made herself as inconspicuous as possible so the Warder would not dismiss her. She had contrived to be sent to the Great Hall that morning, knowing that the Warder intended to brutalize the head clothman for the shoddy quality of the goods readied for shipment to Fax.
«Fax is coming! With dragonmen!» the man gasped out as he plunged into the dim Great Hall.
The Warder, who had been about to lash the head clothman, turned, stunned, from his victim. The courier, a farmholder from the edge of Ruatha, stumbled up to the Warder, so excited with his message that he grabbed the Warder's arm.
«How dare you leave your Hold?» The Warder aimed his lash at the astonished Holder. The force of the first blow knocked the man from his feet. Yelping, he scrambled out of reach of a second lashing. «Dragonmen indeed! Fax? Ha! He shuns Ruatha. There!»
The Warder punctuated each denial with another blow, kicking the helpless wretch for good measure, before he turned breathless to glare at the clothman and the two underwarders. «How did he get in here with such a threadbare lie?» The Warder stalked to the Great Hall door. It was flung open just as he reached for the iron handle. The ashen-faced guard officer rushed in, nearly knocking the Warder down.
«Dragonmen! Dragons! All over Ruatha!» the man gibbered, arms flailing wildly. He, too. pulled at the Warder's arm, dragging the stupefied official toward the outer courtyard, to bear out the truth of his statement.
Lessa scooped up the last pile of ashes. Picking up her equipment, she slipped out of the Great Hall. There was a very pleased smile on her face under the screen of matted hair.
A dragonman at Ruatha! An opportunity: she must somehow contrive to get Fax so humiliated or so infuriated that he would renounce his claim to the Hold, in the presence of a dragonman. Then she could claim her birthright.
But she would have to be extraordinarily wary. Dragonriders were men apart. Anger did not cloud their intelligence. Greed did not sully their judgment. Fear did not dull their reactions. Let the dense-witted believe human sacrifice, unnatural lusts, insane revels. She was not so gullible. And those stories went against her grain. Dragonmen were still human, and there was Weyr blood in her veins. It was the same color blood as that of anyone else; enough of hers had been spilled to prove that
She halted for a moment, catching a sudden shallow breath. Was this the danger she had sensed four days ago at dawn? The final encounter in her struggle to regain the Hold? No, Lessa cautioned herself, there was more to that portent than revenge.
The ash bucket banged against her shins as she shuffled down the low-ceilinged corridor to the stable door. Fax would find a cold welcome. She had laid no new fire on the hearth. Her laugh echoed back unpleasantly from the damp walls. She rested her bucket and propped her broom and shovel as she wrestled with the heavy bronze door that gave into the new. stables.
They had been built outside the cliff of Ruatha by Fax's first Warder, a subtler man than all eight of his successors. He had achieved more than all the others, and Lessa had honestly regretted the necessity of his death. But he would have made her revenge impossible. He would have found her out before she had learned how to camouflage herself and her little interferences. What had his name been? She could not recall. Well, she regretted his death.
The second man had been properly greedy, and it had been easy to set up a pattern of misunderstanding between Warder and craftsmen. That one had been determined to squeeze all profit from Ruathan goods so that some of it would drop into his pocket before Fax suspected a shortage. The craftsmen who had begun to accept the skillful diplomacy of the first Warder bitterly resented the second's grasping, high-handed ways. They resented the passing of the Old Line and, even more so, the way of its passing. They were unforgiving of the insult to Ruatha, its now secondary position in the High Reaches, and they resented the individual indignities that Holders, craftsmen and farmers alike, suffered under the second Warder. It took little manipulation to arrange for matters at Ruatha to go from bad to worse.
The second was replaced and his successor fared no better. He was caught diverting goods-the best of the goods, at that. Fax had had him executed. His bony head still rolled around in the main firepit above the great Tower.
The present incumbent had not been able to maintain the Holding in even the sorry condition in which he had assumed its management. Seemingly simple matters developed rapidly into disasters. Like the production of cloth. Contrary to his boasts to Fax, the quality had not unproved, and the quantity had fallen off.
Now Fax was here. And with dragonmen! Why dragonmen? The import of the question froze Lessa, and the heavy door closing behind her barked her heels painfully. Dragonmen used to be frequent visitors at Ruatha-that she knew and even vaguely remembered. Those memories were like a harper's tale, told of someone else, not something within her own experience. She had limited her fierce attention to Ruatha only. She could not even recall the name of queen, or Weyrwoman from the instructions of her childhood, nor could she recall hearing mention of any queen or Weyrwoman by anyone in the Hold these past ten Turns.
Perhaps the dragonmen were finally going to call the Lords of the Holds to task for the disgraceful show of greenery about the Holds. Well, Lessa was to blame for much of that in Ruatha, but she defied even a dragonman to confront her with her guilt. If all Ruatha fell to the Threads, it would be better than remaining dependent to Fax! The heresy shocked Lessa even as she thought it.
Wishing she could as easily unburden her conscience of such blasphemy, she ditched the ashes on the stable midden. There was a sudden change in air pressure around her. Then a fleeting shadow caused her to glance up.
From behind the cliff above glided a dragon, its enormous wings spread to their fullest as he caught the morning updraft. Turning effortlessly, he descended. A second, a third, a full wing of dragons followed in soundless flight and patterned descent, graceful and awesome. The claxon rang belatedly from the Tower, and from within the kitchen there issued the screams and shrieks of the terrified drudges.
Lessa took cover. She ducked into the kitchen where she was instantly seized by the assistant cook and thrust with a buffet and a kick toward the sinks. There she was put to scrubbing the grease-encrusted serving utensils with cleansing sand.
The yelping canines were already lashed to the spitrun, turning a scrawny herdbeast that had been set to roast. The cook was ladling seasonings on the carcass, swearing at having to offer so poor a meal to so many guests, some of them of high rank. Winter-dried fruits from the last scanty harvest had been set to soak, and two of the oldest drudges were scraping
roots to be boiled.
An apprentice cook was kneading bread and another carefully spicing a sauce. Looking fixedly at him, Lessa diverted his hand from one spice box to a less appropriate one as he gave a final shake to the concoction. She innocently added too much wood to the wall oven to insure the rum of the breads. She controlled the canines deftly, slowing one and speeding the other so that the meat would be underdone on one side, burned on the other. That the feast should result in fast, with the food presented found inedible, was her whole intention.
Above, in the Hold, she had no doubt that certain other measures, undertaken at different times for this exact contingency, were being discovered.
Her fingers bloodied from a beating, one of the Warder's women came shrieking into the kitchen, hopeful of refuge there.
«Insects have eaten the best blankets to shreds! And a canine who had littered on the best linens snarled at me as she gave suck. And the rushes are noxious, and the best chambers full of debris driven in by the winter wind. Somebody left the shutters ajar. Just a tiny bit, but it was enough,» the woman wailed, clutching her hand to her breast and rocking back and forth.
Lessa bent with great industry to shine the plates.
CHAPTER V
Watch-wher, watch'wher, In your lair,
Watch well, watch'wher! Who goes there?
«The watch-wher is hiding something,» F'lar told F'nor as they consulted in the hastily cleaned great chamber. The room delighted to hold the wintry chill, although a generous fire now burned on the hearth.
«It was but gibbering when Canth spoke to it,» F'nor remarked. He was leaning against the mantel, turning slightly from side to side to gather some warmth. He watched his wingleader's impatient pacing.
«Mnementh is calming it down,» F'lar replied. «He may be able to sort out the nightmare. The creature may be more senile than sane, but»