The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [100]
The Council Room was fraught with tension and stunned reflection until Zurg, the Masterweaver, rose to speak.
“My craft, too, has something to offer . . . which is only fair since we deal with thread every day of our lives . . . in regard to the ancient methods.” Zurg’s voice was light and dry, and his eyes, in their creases of spare, lined flesh, were busy, darting from one face in his audience to another. “In Ruath Hold I once saw upon the wall . . . where the tapestry now resides, who knows?” He slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then at Bargen of the High Reaches who had succeeded to Fax’s title there. “The work was as old as dragonkind and showed, among other things, a man on foot, carrying upon his back a curious contraption. He held within his hand a rounded, sword-long object from which tongues of flame . . . magnificently woven in the orange-red dyes now lost to us . . . spouted toward the ground. Above, of course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes predominating . . . again we’ve lost that true dragon-bronze shade. Consequently I remember the work as much for what we now lack as for its subject matter.”
“A flamethrower?” the Smith rumbled. “A flamethrower,” he repeated with a falling inflection. “A flamethrower,” he murmured thoughtfully, his heavy brows drawn into a titanic scowl. “A thrower of what sort of flame? It requires thought.” He lowered his head and didn’t speak, so engrossed in the required thought that he lost interest in the rest of the discussion.
“Yes, good Zurg, there have been many tricks of every trade lost in recent Turns,” F’lar commented sardonically. “If we wish to continue living, such knowledge must be revived . . . fast. I would particularly like to recover the tapestry of which Master Zurg speaks.”
F’lar looked significantly at those Lords who had quarreled over Fax’s seven Holds after his death.
“It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it appear at Ruatha. Or at Zurg’s or Fandarel’s craft-hall. Whichever is most convenient.”
There was some shuffling of feet, but no one admitted ownership.
“It might then be returned to Fax’s son, who is now Ruatha’s Lord,” F’lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice.
Lytol snorted softly and glowered around the room. F’lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Jaxom, reared by such a cheerless if honest guardian.
“If I may, Lord Weyrleader,” Robinton broke in, “we might all benefit, as your maps prove to us, from research in our own Records.” He smiled suddenly, an unexpectedly embarrassed smile. “I own I find myself in some disgrace for we Harpers have let slip unpopular ballads and skimped on some of the longer Teaching Ballads and Sagas . . . for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.”
F’lar stifled a laugh with a cough. Robinton was a genius.
“I must see that Ruathan tapestry,” Fandarel suddenly boomed out.
“I’m sure it will be in your hands very soon,” F’lar assured him with more confidence than he dared feel. “My Lords, there is much to be done. Now that you understand what we all face, I leave it in your hands as leaders in your separate Holds and crafts how best to organize your own people. Craftsmen, turn your best minds to our special problems: review all Records that might turn up something to our purpose. Lords Telgar, Crom, Ruatha, and Nabol, I shall be with you in three days. Nerat, Keroon, and Igen, I am at your disposal to help destroy any burrow on your lands. While we have the Masterminer here, tell him your needs. How stands your craft?”
“Happy to be so busy at our trade, Weyrleader,” piped up the Masterminer.
Just then F’lar caught sight of F’nor, hovering about in the shadows of the hallway, trying to catch his eye. The brown rider wore an exultant grin, and it was obvious he was bursting with news.
F’lar wondered how they could have returned so swiftly from the Southern Continent, and then he realized that F’nor—again—was tanned. He gave