Dragonquest

“Lessa told me about Lord Groghe’s demand,” F’nor said, to give himself time to absorb his brother’s remarkable and logical questions.

“It isn’t just that we couldn’t see the Star to find coordinates,” F’lar went on urgently. “The Ancients had the equipment. They preserved it carefully, though not even Fandarel can guess how. They preserved it for us, perhaps? For a time when we’d know how to overcome the last obstacle?”

“Which is the last obstacle?” F’nor demanded, sarcastically, thinking of nine or ten off hand.

“There’re enough, I know.” And F’lar ticked them off on his fingers. “Protection of Pern while all the Weyrs are away – which might well mean the grubs on the land and a well organized ground crew to take care of homes and people. Dragons big enough, intelligent enough to aid us. You’ve noticed yourself that our dragons are both bigger and smarter than those four hundred Turns older. If the dragons were bred for this purpose from creatures like Grall, they didn’t grow to present size in the course of just a few Hatchings. Any more than the Masterherdsman could breed those long-staying long-legged ru

There was an undercurrent to F’lar’s voice, F’nor suddenly realized. The man was not as certain of this outrageous notion as he sounded. And yet, wasn’t the recognized goal of dragonmen the complete extermination of all Thread from the skies of Pern? Or was it? There wasn’t a line of the Teaching Ballads and Sagas that even suggested more than that the dragonmen prepare and guard Pern when the Red Star passed. Nothing hinted at a time when there would be no Thread to fight.

“Isn’t it just possible that we, now, are the culmination of thousands of Turns of careful pla

“Except one,” F’nor said slowly, hating himself.

“Which?” All the warmth and fervor drained out of F’lar and that single word came in a cold, harsh voice.

“Son of my father,” began F’nor, taking a deep breath, “if dragonmen clear the Star of Thread, what further purpose is there for them?”

F’lar, his face white and set with disappointment, drew himself to his feet.

“Well, I assume you’ve an answer to that, too,” F’nor went on, unable to bear the disillusion in his half-brother’s scornful regard. “Now where’s that long-handled hearthpan I’m supposed to catch Thread in?”

When they had thoroughly discussed and rejected every other possible method of securing Thread, and how they were to keep this project a secret – only Lessa and Ramoth knew of it – they parted, both assuring the other that he’d eat and rest. Both certain that the other could not.

If F’nor appreciated the audacity of F’lar’s project, he also counted up the flaws and the possible disasters. And then he realized that he still hadn’t had a chance to broach the i

Someone, probably Manora, had cleaned his weyr during his absence at Southern. F’nor was grateful for the fresh, supple skins on the bed, the clean, mended clothes in his chest, the waxed wood of table and chairs. Canth grumbled that someone had swept the sandy accumulation from his weyr-couch and he had nothing to scour his belly hide with now.

F’nor dutifully sympathized as he lay back on the silky furs of his bed. The scar on his arm itched a little and he rubbed it.

Oil is for itching skin, said Canth. Imperfect hide cracks in between.

“Be quiet, you. I’ve got skin, not hide.”

Grall appeared in his room, hovering over his chest, her wings wafting cool air across his face. She was curious, a curiosity with slight overtones of alarm.

He smiled, generating reassurance and affection. The gyrations of her lovely jewel-faceted eyes slowed and she made a graceful survey of his quarters, humming when she discovered the bathing room. He could hear her splashing about in the water. He closed his eyes. He would need to rest. He did not look forward to the afternoon’s endeavor.

If the grubs did live to eat Thread, and if F’lar could maneuver the scared Lords and Craftsmen into accepting this solution, what then? They weren’t fools, those men. They’d see that Pern would no longer be dependent on Dragonriders. Of course, that’s what they wanted. And what under the sun did out-of-work Dragonriders do? The Lords Holders Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Meron and Vincet would immediately dispense with tithes. F’nor wouldn’t object to learning another trade, but F’lar had relinquished their tentative hold on the southern continent to the Oldtimers, so where would dragonmen farm? What commodity would they barter for the products of the Crafthalls?

F’lar couldn’t be under the impression that he could mend that breach with T’kul, could he? Or maybe – well, they didn’t know how large the southern continent was. Past the deserts to the west or the unexplored sea to the east, maybe there were other, hospitable lands. Did F’lar know more than he said? Grall chirruped piteously in his ear. She was clinging to the fur rug by his shoulder, her supple hide gleaming golden from her bath. He stroked her, wondering if she needed oil. She was growing, but not at the tremendous rate dragons did in the first few weeks after Hatching.

Well, his thoughts were disturbing her as well as himself. “Canth?”

The dragon was asleep. The fact was oddly consoling.

F’nor found a comfortable position and closed his eyes, determined to rest. Grall’s soft stirrings ended and he felt her body resting against his neck, in the curve of his shoulder. He wondered how Brekke was doing at the High Reaches. And if her small bronze was as unsettled by Weyrlife in a cliff as Grall. A memory of Brekke’s face crossed his mind. Not as he had last seen her, anxious, worried, rapidly mobilizing her wits to cope with moving so precipitously after T’kul had swooped down on the unsuspecting settlement. But as loving had made her, soft, gentled. He’d have her soon to himself all to himself, for he’d see that she didn’t over extend herself fighting everyone’s battles except her own. She’d be asleep now, he realized, for it was still night at High Reaches . . .

Brekke was not asleep. She had awakened suddenly, as she was accustomed to doing in the morning, except that the dark stillness around her was not simply that of an i

Brekke tried to compose herself back into sleep, but even as she made her body relax, she realized it was a useless attempt. It might be late watch here at High Reaches, but it was dawn in Southern, and that’s the rhythm her body was still tuned to. With a sigh, she rose, reassuring Berd who rustled around anxiously. But he joined her in the pool – bath, splashing with small vehemence in the warm water, utilizing the superfluous suds from her cleansing sands to bathe himself. He preened on the bench, uttering those soft voluptuous croons that amused her. In a way, it was good to be up and about with no one to interrupt her for there was so much to be done to settle the weyrfolk in their new habitation. She’d have to plan around some of the most obvious problems. There was little fresh food. T’kul had gratuitously left behind the oldest, scrawniest bucks, the worst furnishings, had made off with most of the supplies of cloth, cured woods, leathers, all the wine, and managed to prevent the Southern folk from taking enough from their stores to make up the deficits. Oh, if she’d had even two hours, or any warning . . .