Dragonquest

“We don’t like losing Brekke as a Weyrwoman – ” She paused and added, her voice a little harsher, “And since it is now obvious that a person can Impress more than once, and more than one Dragonkind, Brekke will be presented as a candidate when the Benden eggs Hatch. Which should be soon.”

“I perceive,” Robinton said, cautiously choosing his words “that not everyone favors this departure from custom.”

Although he couldn’t see her face in the darkness, he felt her eyes on him.

“This time it’s not the Oldtimers. I suppose they’re so sure she can’t re-Impress, they’re indifferent.”

“Who then?”

“F’nor and Manora oppose it violently.”

“And Brekke?”

Lessa gave an impatient snort. “Brekke says nothing. She will not even open her eyes. She can’t be sleeping all the time. The lizards and the dragons tell us she’s awake. You see,” and Lessa’s exasperation showed through her tight control for she was more worried about Brekke than she’d admit even to herself, “Brekke can hear any dragon. Like me. She’s the only other Weyrwoman who can. And all the dragons listen to her.” Lessa moved restlessly and Robinton could see her slender white hands rubbing against her thighs in unconscious agitation.

“Surely that’s an advantage if she’s suicidal?”

“Brekke is not – not actively suicidal. She’s craftbred, you know,” Lessa said in a flat, disapproving tone of voice.

“No, I didn’t know,” Robinton murmured encouragingly after a pause. He was thinking that Lessa wouldn’t ever contemplate suicide in a similar circumstance and wondered what Brekke’s “breeding” had to do with a suicidal aptitude.

“That’s her trouble. She can’t actively seek death so she just lies there. I have this incredible urge,” and Lessa bunched her fists, “to beat or pinch or slap her – anything to get some response from the girl. It’s not the end of the world, after all. She can hear other dragons. She’s not bereft of all contact with Dragonkind, like Lytol.”

“She must have time to recover from the shock . . .”

“I know, I know,” Lessa said irritably, “but we don’t have time. We can’t get her to realize that it’s better to do things . . .”

“Lessa . . .”

“Don’t you ‘Lessa’ me too, Robinton.” In the reflection of the glow lights, the Weyrwoman’s eyes gleamed angrily. “F’nor’s as daft as a weyrling, Manora’s beside herself with worry for them both, Mirrim spends more of her time weeping which upsets the trio of lizards she’s got and that sets off all the babes and the weyrlings. And, on top of everything else, F’lar . . .”

“F’lar?” Robinton had bent close to her so that no one else might hear her reply.

“He is feverish. He ought never to have come to High Reaches with that open wound. You know what cold between does to wounds!”

“I’d hoped he’d be here tonight.”

Lessa’s laugh was sour. “I dosed his klah when he wasn’t looking.”

Robinton chuckled. “And stuffed him with mosstea, I’ll bet.”

“Packed the wound with it, too.”

“He’s a strong man, Lessa. He’ll be all right.”

“He’d better be. If only F’nor – ” and Lessa broke off. “I sound like a wherry, don’t I?” She gave a sigh and smiled up at Robinton.

“Not a bit, my dear Lessa, I assure you. However, it’s not as if Benden were inadequately represented,” and he executed a little bow which, if she shrugged it off, at least made her laugh. “in fact,” he went on, “I’m a trifle relieved that F’lar isn’t here, railing at anything that keeps him from blotting out any Thread he happens to see in that contraption.”

“True enough.” And Robinton caught the edge to her voice. “I’m not sure . . .”

She didn’t finish her sentence and turned so swiftly to mark the landing of another dragon that Robinton was certain she was at odds with F’lar’s wishing to push a move against the Red Star.

Suddenly she stiffened, drawing in her breath sharply. “Meron! What does he think he’s doing here?”

“Easy, Lessa. I don’t like him around any better than you, but I’d rather keep him in sight, if you know what I mean.”

“But he’s got no influence on the other Lords . . .”

Robinton gave a harsh laugh. “My dear Weyrwoman, considering the influence he’s been exerting in other areas, he doesn’t need the Lords’ support.”

Robinton did wonder at the gall of the man, appearing in public anywhere a scant six days after he’d been involved in the deaths of two queen dragons.

The Lord Holder of Nabol strode insolently to the focal point of the gathering, his bronze fire lizard perched on his forearm, its wings extended as it fought to maintain its balance. The little creature began to hiss as it became aware of the antagonism directed at Meron.

“And this – this i

“Don’t touch it, I beg of you.” Wansor jumped forward, intercepting Nabol’s hand.

“What did you say?” The lizard’s hiss was no less sibilantly menacing than Meron’s tone. The Lord’s thin features, contorted with indignation, took on an added malevolence from the glow lights.

Fandarel stepped out of the darkness to his craftsman’s side. “The instrument is positioned for the viewing. To move it would destroy the careful work of some hours.”

“If it is positioned for viewing, then let us view!” Nabol said and, after staring belligerently around the circle, stepped past Wansor. “Well? What do you do with this thing?”

Wansor glanced questioningly at the big Smith, who made a slight movement of his head, excusing him. Wansor gratefully stepped back and let Fandarel preside. With two gnarled fingers, the Smith delicately held the small round protuberance at the top of the smaller cylinder.

“This is the eyepiece. Put your best seeing eye to it,” he told Meron.

The lack of any courteous title was not lost on the Nabolese. Plainly he wanted to reprimand the Smith. Had Wansor spoken so, he would not have hesitated a second Robinton thought.

Meron’s lips slid into a sneer and, with a bit of a swagger, he took the final step to the distance-viewer. Bending forward slightly, he laid his eye to the proper place. And jerked his body back hastily, his face wearing a fleeting expression of shock and terror. He laughed uneasily and then took a second, longer look. Far too long a look to Robinton’s mind.

“If there is any lack of definition in the image, Lord Meron – ” Wansor began tentatively.

“Shut up!” Gesturing him away impatiently, Meron continued his deliberate monopoly of the instrument.

“That will be enough, Meron,” Groghe, Lord of Fort said as the others began to stir restlessly. “You’ve had more than your fair turn this round. Move away. Let others see.”

Meron stared insolently at Groghe for a moment and then looked back into the eyepiece.

“Very interesting. Very interesting,” he said, his tone oily with amusement.

“That is quite enough, Meron,” Lessa said, striding to the instrument. The man could not be allowed any privilege.

He regarded her as he might a body insect, coldly and mockingly.

“Enough of what – Weyrwoman?” And his tone made the title a vulgar epithet. In fact, his pose exuded such a lewd familiarity that Robinton found he was clenching his fists. He had an insane desire to wipe that look from Meron’s face and change the arrangement of the features in the process.

The Mastersmith, however, reacted more quickly. His two great hands secured Meron’s arms to his sides and, in a fluid movement, Fandarel picked the Nabolese Lord up, the man’s feet dangling a full dragonfoot above the rock, and carried him as far away from the Star Stones as the ledge permitted. Fandarel then set Meron down so hard that the man gave a startled exclamation of pain and staggered before he gained his balance. The little lizard screeched around his head.

“My lady,” the Mastersmith inclined his upper body toward Lessa and gestured with great courtesy for her to take her place.