Dragonquest (3 page)

When I work, I work;
Canth replied.
Without my help, how would you know which holdbred lad would make a good dragonrider? And do I not find girls who make good queen riders, too?

F'nor laughed indulgently, but it was true that Canth's ability to spot likely candidates for fighting dragons and breeding queens was much vaunted by Benden Weyr dragonmen.

Then F'nor frowned, remembering the odd hostility of the small holders and crafters he'd encountered in Southern Boll's Holds and Crafts. Yes, the people had been hostile until—until he'd identified himself as a Benden Weyr dragonrider. He'd have thought it'd be the other way round. Southern Boll was weyrbound to Fort Weyr. Traditionally—and F'nor grinned wryly since the Fort Weyrleader, T'ron, was so adamant in upholding all that was traditional, customary . . . and static—traditionally, the Weyr which protected a territory had first claim on any possible riders. But the five Oldtime Weyrs rarely sought beyond their own Lower Caverns for candidates. Of course, thought F'nor, the Oldtime queens didn't produce large clutches like the modern queens, nor many golden queen eggs. Come to think on it, only three queens had been Hatched in the Oldtime Weyrs in the seven Turns since Lessa brought them forward.

Well, let the Oldtimers stick to their ways if that made them feel superior. But F'nor agreed with F'lar. It was only common sense to give your dragonets as wide a choice as possible. Though the women in the Lower Caverns of Benden Weyr were certainly agreeable, there simply weren't enough weyrborn lads to match up the quantity of dragons hatched.

Now, if one of the other Weyrleaders, maybe G'narish of Igen Weyr or R'mart of Telgar Weyr, would throw open their junior queens' mating flights, the Oldtimers might notice an improvement in size of clutch and the dragons that hatched. A man was a fool to breed only to his own Bloodlines all the time.

The afternoon breeze shifted and brought with it the pungent fumes of numbweed a-boil. F'nor groaned. He'd forgotten that the women were making numbweed for salve that was the universal remedy for the burn of Thread and other painful afflictions. That had been one main reason for going on Search yesterday. The odor of numbweed was pervasive. Yesterday's breakfast had tasted medicinal instead of cereal. Since the preparation of numbweed salve was a tedious as well as smelly process, most dragonmen made themselves scarce during its manufacture. F'nor glanced across the Weyr Bowl to the queen's weyr. Ramoth, of course, was in the Hatching Ground, hovering over her latest clutch of eggs, but bronze Mnementh was absent from his accustomed perch on the ledge. F'lar and he were off somewhere, no doubt escaping the smell of numbweed as well as Lessa's uncertain temper. She conscientiously took part in even the most onerous duties of Weyrwoman, but that didn't mean she had to like them.

Numbweed stink notwithstanding, F'nor was hungry. He hadn't eaten since late afternoon yesterday, and, since there was a good six hours' time difference between Southern Boll on the western coast and Benden Weyr in the east, he'd missed the dinner hour at Benden Weyr completely.

With a parting scratch, F'nor told Canth that he'd get some food, and started down the stone ramp from his ledge. One of the privileges of being Wing-second was choice of quarters. Since Ramoth as senior queen would permit only two junior queens in Benden Weyr, there were two unoccupied Weyrwoman quarters. F'nor had appropriated one and did not need to disturb Canth when he wished to descend to a lower level.

As he approached the entrance of the Lower Caverns, the aroma of boiling numbweed made his eyes smart. He'd grab some
klah,
bread and fruit and go listen to the Weyrlingmaster. They were upwind. As Wing-second, F'nor liked to take every opportunity to measure up the new riders, particularly those who were not weyrbred. Life in a Weyr required certain adjustments for the craft and holdbred. The freedom and privileges sometimes went to a boy's head, particularly after he was able to take his dragon
between
—anywhere on Pern—in the space it takes to count to three. Again, F'nor agreed with F'lar's preference in presenting older lads at Impression though the Oldtimers deplored that practice at Benden Weyr, too. But, by the Shell, a lad in his late teens recognized the responsibility of his position (even if he were holdbred) as a dragonrider. He was more emotionally mature and, while there was no lessening of the impact of Impression with his dragon, he could absorb and understand the implications of a lifelong link, of an in-the-soul contact, the total empathy between himself and his dragon. An older boy didn't get carried away. He knew enough to compensate until his dragonet's instinctive sensibility unfolded. A baby dragon had precious little sense and, if some silly weyrling let his beast eat too much, the whole Weyr suffered through its torment. Even an older beast lived for the here and now, with little thought for the future and not all that much recollection—except on the instinctive level—for the past. That was just as well, F'nor thought. For dragons bore the brunt of Thread-score. Perhaps if their memories were more acute or associative, they'd refuse to fight.

F'nor took a deep breath and, blinking furiously against the fumes, entered the huge kitchen Cavern. It was seething with activity. Half the female population of the Weyr must be involved in this operation, F'nor thought, for great cauldrons monopolized all the large hearths set in the outside wall of the Cavern. Women were seated at the broad tables, washing and cutting the roots from which the salve was extracted. Some were ladling the boiling product into great earthenware pots. Those who stirred the concoction with long-handled paddles wore masks over nose and mouth and bent frequently to blot eyes watering from the acrid fumes. Older children were fetching and carrying, fuelrock from the store caves for the fires, pots to the cooling caves. Everyone was busy.

Fortunately the nighthearth, nearest the entrance, was operating for normal use, the huge
klah
pot and stew kettle swinging from their hooks, keeping warm over the coals. Just as F'nor had filled his cup, he heard his name called. Glancing around, he saw his blood mother, Manora, beckon to him. Her usually serene face wore a look of puzzled concern.

Obediently F'nor crossed to the hearth where she, Lessa, and another young woman who looked familiar though F'nor couldn't place her, were examining a small kettle.

“My duty to you, Lessa, Manora—” and he paused, groping for the third name.

“You ought to remember Brekke, F'nor,” Lessa said, raising her eyebrows at his lapse.

“How can you expect anyone to see in a place dense with fumes?” F'nor demanded, making much of blotting his eyes on his sleeve. “I haven't seen much of you, Brekke, since the day Canth and I brought you from your crafthold to Impress young Wirenth.”

“F'nor, you're as bad as F'lar,” Lessa exclaimed, somewhat testily. “You never forget a dragon's name, but his rider's?”

“How fares Wirenth, Brekke?” F'nor asked, ignoring Lessa's interruption.

The girl looked startled but managed a hesitant smile, then pointedly looked towards Manora, trying to turn attention from herself. She was a shade too thin for F'nor's tastes, not much taller than Lessa whose diminutive size in no way lessened the authority and respect she commanded. There was, however, a sweetness about Brekke's solemn face, unexpectedly framed with dark curly hair, that F'nor did find appealing. And he liked her self-effacing modesty. He was wondering how she got along with Kylara, the tempestuous and irresponsible senior Weyrwoman at Southern Weyr, when Lessa tapped the empty pot before her.

“Look at this, F'nor. The lining has cracked and the entire kettle of numbweed salve is discolored.”

F'nor whistled appreciatively.

“Would you know what it is the Smith uses to coat the metal?” Manora asked. “I wouldn't dare use tainted salve, and yet I hate to discard so much if there's no reason.”

F'nor tipped the pot to the light. The dull tan lining was seamed by fine cracks along one side.

“See what it does to the salve?” and Lessa thrust a small bowl at him.

The anesthetic ointment, normally a creamy, pale yellow, had turned a reddish tan. Rather a threatening color, F'nor thought. He smelled it, dipped his finger in and felt the skin immediately deaden.

“It works,” he said with a shrug.

“Yes, but what would happen to an open Threadscore with that foreign substance cooked into the salve?” asked Manora.

“Good point. What does F'lar say?”

“Oh, him.” Lessa screwed her fine delicate features into a grimace. “He's off to Lemos Hold to see how that woodcraftsman of Lord Asgenar's is doing with the wood pulp leaves.”

F'nor grinned. “Never around when you want him, huh, Lessa?”

She opened her mouth for a stinging reply, her gray eyes snapping, and then realized that F'nor was teasing.

“You're as bad as he is,” she said, grinning up at the tall Wing-second who resembled her Weyrmate so closely. Yet the two men, though the stamp of their mutual sire was apparent in the thick shocks of black hair, the strong features, the lean rangy bodies (F'nor had a squarer, broader frame with not enough flesh on his bones so that he appeared unfinished), the two men were different in temperament and personality. F'nor was less introspective and more easygoing than his half brother, F'lar, the elder by three Turns. The Weyrwoman sometimes found herself treating F'nor as if he were an extension of his half brother and, perhaps for this reason, could joke and tease with him. She was not on easy terms with many people.

F'nor returned her smile and gave her a mocking little bow for the compliment.

“Well, I've no objections to running your errand to the Mastersmithhall. I'm supposed to be Searching and I can Search in Telgar Hold as well as anywhere else. R'mart's nowhere near as sticky as some of the other Oldtimer Weyrleaders.” He took the pot off the hook, peering into it once more, then glanced around the busy room, shaking his head. “I'll take your pot to Fandarel but it looks to me as though you've already got enough numbweed to coat every dragon in all six—excuse me—seven Weyrs.” He grinned at Brekke for the girl seemed curiously ill at ease. Lessa could be snap-tempered when she was preoccupied and Ramoth was fussing over her latest clutch like a novice—which would tend to make Lessa more irritable. Strange for a junior Weyrwoman from Southern Weyr to be involved in any brewing at Benden.

“A Weyr can't have too much numbweed,” Manora said briskly.

“That isn't the only pot that's showing cracks, either,” Lessa cut in, testily. “And if we've got to gather more numbweed to make up what we've lost . . .”

“There's the second crop at the Southern Weyr,” Brekke suggested, then looked flustered for speaking up.

But the look Lessa turned on Brekke was grateful. “I've no intention of shorting you, Brekke, when Southern Weyr does the nursing of every fool who can't dodge Thread.”

“I'll take the pot. I'll take the pot,” F'nor cried with humorous assurance. “But first, I've got to have more in me than a cup of
klah.”

Lessa blinked at him, her glance going to the entrance and the late afternoon sun slanting in on the floor.

“It's only just past noon in Telgar Hold,” he said, patiently. “Yesterday I was all day Searching at Southern Boll so I'm hours behind myself.” He stifled a yawn.

“I'd forgotten. Any luck?”

“Canth didn't twitch an ear. Now let me eat and get away from the stink. Don't know how you stand it.”

Lessa snorted. “Because I can't stand the groans when you riders don't have numbweed.”

F'nor grinned down at his Weyrwoman, aware that Brekke's eyes were wide in amazement at their good-natured banter. He was sincerely fond of Lessa as a person, not just as Weyrwoman of Benden's senior queen. He heartily approved of F'lar's permanent attachment of Lessa, not that there seemed much chance that Ramoth would ever permit any dragon but Mnementh to fly her. As Lessa was a superb Weyrwoman for Benden Weyr, so F'lar was the logical bronze rider. They were well matched as Weyrwoman and Weyrleader, and Benden Weyr—and Pern—profited. So did the three Holds bound to Benden for protection. Then F'nor remembered the hostility of the people at Southern Boll yesterday until they learned that he was a Benden rider. He started to mention this to Lessa when Manora broke his train of thought.

“I am very disturbed by this discoloration, F'nor,” she said. “Here. Show Mastersmith Fandarel these,” and she put two small pots into the larger vessel. “He can see exactly the change that occurs. Brekke, would you be kind enough to serve F'nor?”

“No need,” F'nor said hastily and backed away, pot swinging from his hand. He used to be annoyed that Manora, who was only his mother, could never rid herself of the notion that he was incapable of doing for himself. She was certainly quick enough to make her fosterlings fend for themselves, as his foster mother had made him.

“Don't drop the pot when you go
between,
F'nor,” was her parting admonition.

F'nor chuckled to himself. Once a mother, always a mother, he guessed, for Lessa was as broody about Felessan, the only child she'd borne. Just as well the Weyrs practiced fostering. Felessan—as likely a lad to Impress a bronze dragon as F'nor had seen in all his Turns at Searching—got along far better with his placid foster mother than he would have with Lessa had she had the rearing of him.

As he ladled out a bowl of stew, F'nor wondered at the perversity of women. Girls were constantly pleading to come to Benden Weyr. They'd not be expected to bear child after child till they were worn-out and old. Women in the Weyrs remained active and appealing. Manora had seen twice the Turns that, for instance, Lord Sifer of Bitra's latest wife had, yet Manora looked younger. Well, a rider preferred to seek his own loves, not have them foisted on him. There were enough spare women in the Lower Caverns right now.