Dragonquest

“Good Masterharper, have you seen F’lar or Fandarel?” Lytol had come up to him, the young Lord Jaxom at his elbow.

“Not yet.”

Lytol frowned, suggested pointedly that Jaxom look for the young Bloods of Telgar Hold and drew Robinton further from the nearest guests.

“How do you think the Lords will react to Lord Meron of Nabol?”

“React to Meron?” Robinton snorted derisively. “By ignoring him, of course. Not that his opinion would influence the Conclave . . .”

“I don’t mean that. I mean his possession of a fire lizard – ” Lytol broke off as the Harper stared at him. “You didn’t hear? The messenger went through Ruatha Hold yesterday, bound for Fort Hold and your Crafthall.”

“He missed me or – was he free with his news?”

“To me, yes. I seem to attract confidences . . .”

“Fire lizard? What about them? I used to spend hours trying to catch one. Never did In fact I never heard of one being caught. How did Meron manage the trick?”

Lytol grimaced, the tic begi

“And Meron of Nabol Impressed one?”

Lytol gave a mirthless laugh. “Unlikely, I grant you. The fire lizards exhibit a woeful lack of taste. But you can rest assured that Meron of Nabol would not waste time on fire lizards if they weren’t of use to him.”

Robinton considered this and then shrugged. “I don’t think you need be concerned. But how did Nabol get one? How can they be Impressed? I thought that was strictly a draconic trait.”

“How Lord Meron of Nabol acquired one is what bothers me the most,” Lytol said, glowering. “That Southern Weyrwoman, Kylara, brought him a whole clutch of eggs. Of course, they lost most in the Hatching, but the few that survived are making quite a stir in Nabol Hold. The messenger had seen one, and he was all bright-eyed in the telling. ‘A regular dragon in miniature’ he said, and he’s all for trying his luck on the sandy beaches in Southern Boll and Fort from the gleam in his eye.”

“ ‘A regular dragon in miniature,’ huh?” Robinton began to turn the significance of this around in his mind. He didn’t like the angles he saw.

There wasn’t a boy alive on Pern that hadn’t at one time dreamed of suddenly becoming acceptable to Dragonkind, of Impressing. Of having at his beck and call (little dreaming it was more the other way round) an immense creature, capable of going anywhere on Pern in a breath, of defeating all enemies with his flame-ridden breath (also fallacious as dragons never flamed anything but Thread wouldn’t knowingly harm a human). Life at the mountaintop Weyrs assumed a glamor all out of proportion to reality, yet dragonmen were not stooped by the heavy labor of the fields, orchards and craft benches; they were straight and tall, dressed in beautifully ta

And a “regular miniature dragon” in the possession of a sly-faced underhanded malcontent like Meron of Nabol, who was sour about dragonmen anyway (with some justification in the matter of the Esvay valley against T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr), could be an embarrassment for F’lar at the least, and might disrupt their plans for the day at the worst.

“Well, if Kylara brought the fire-lizard eggs to Nabol Hold, F’lar will know,” Robinton told the worried Lord Warder. “They keep pretty close tabs on that woman.”

Lytol’s glower deepened. “I hope so. Meron of Nabol will certainly let no chance pass to irritate or embarrass F’lar. Have you seen F’lar?”

They both glanced around, hopefully. Then Robinton caught sight of a familiar grizzled head, bobbing toward himself and the Warder.

“Speaking of Benden, here’s old Lord Raid charging down on us. I’ve an idea what he wants and I will not sing that ancient lay about the Holders one more time. Excuse me, Lytol.”

Robinton slipped into the milling guests, working as rapidly away from the Benden Lord Holder as possible. He happened to dislike Lord Raid’s favorite ballad with a passion and, if Raid cornered him, he’d have no choice but to sing it. He felt no compunction about leaving Lytol exposed to Lord Raid’s pompous ma

The Masterharper halted at a point where he could look up at the cliff, trying to spot Ramoth or Mnementh among the dragons lining the edge.

Fire lizards? How was Meron going to use a fire lizard? Unless it was because Kylara, a Weyrwoman, had given him one. Yes. That was guaranteed to sow dissension. Undoubtedly every Lord Holder here would want one, so as to be equal to Meron. There couldn’t be enough eggs to go around. Meron would capitalize on forgotten yearnings, and chalk up one more irritation against dragonmen.

Robinton found that the meatrolls sat heavily in his stomach. Suddenly Brudegan detached himself from the crowd, bowing with a rueful grin to those he’d been serenading as if he were reluctantly answering his Master’s summons.

“The undercurrent is something fierce,” the journeyman said, pretending to tune his instrument. “Everyone’s so determined to have a good time. Odd, too. It’s not what they say, but how they say it that tips you off.” The boy flushed as Robinton nodded approvingly. “For instance, they refer to ‘that Weyrleader’ meaning their own weyrbound leader. ‘The Weyrleader’ always means F’lar of Benden. ‘The Weyrleader’ had understood. ‘The Weyrleader’ had tried. ‘She’ means Lessa. ‘Her’ means their own Weyrwoman. Interesting?”

“Fascinating. What’s the feeling about Threadfall?”

Brudegan bent his head to the gitar, twanged strings discordantly. He drew his hand across all eight in a dissonant chord that ran a chill down the Masterharper’s spine. Then Brudegan turned away with a gay song.

Robinton wished that F’lar and Lessa would arrive. He did see D’ram of Ista Weyr talking earnestly to Igen’s Weyrleader, G’narish. He liked that pair best of the Oldtimers, G’narish being young enough to change and D’ram essentially too honest to deny a truth when his nose was in it. Trouble was, he kept his nose inside Ista Weyr too much.

Neither man looked at ease, as much because there was an island of empty space around them – an obvious ostracization with the Court so crowded – as anything else. They greeted Robinton with grave relief.

“Such a happy occasion,” he said and, when they reacted with surprise, he hurried on. “Have you heard from F’lar?”

“Should we? There’s been more Thread?” G’narish asked, alarmed.

“Not that I know of.”

“Have you seen T’ron or T’kul about? We just arrived.”

“No, in fact, none of the western people seem to be here except Lord Warder Lytol of Ruatha.”

D’ram clenched his teeth with an audible snap.

“R’mart of Telgar can’t come,” the Oldtimer said. “He took a bad scoring.”

“I’d heard it was wicked at Crom Hold,” Robinton murmured, sympathetically. “No way to predict it’d fall there at that time, either.”

“I see Lord Nessel of Crom and his Holders are here in strength, though,” D’ram said, his voice bitter.

“He could scarcely stay away without insulting Lord Larad. How bad were the Telgar Weyr’s casualties? And if R’mart’s out of action, who’s leading?”

D’ram gave the Harper the distinct feeling that he’d asked an impertinent question, but G’narish answered easily.

“The wing-second, M’rek, took over but the Weyr is so badly under strength that D’ram and I talked it over and sent replacements. As it happens, we’ve enough weyrlings who’ve just started chewing stone so we’re wing-full.” G’narish glanced at the older dragonman as if he suddenly realized that he was discussing Weyr affairs with an outsider. He gave a shrug. “It makes more sense with Thread falling out of phase and the Crom Hold demoralized. We used to do it in the Oldtime when a Weyr was understrength. In fact, I flew with Benden one season as a weyrling.”