The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [101]
“Lords and Craftmasters, a dragonet will be at the disposal of each of you for messages and transportation. Now, good morning.”
He strode out of the Council Room, up the passageway into the queen’s weyr, and parted the still swinging curtains into the sleeping room just as F’nor was pouring himself a cup of wine.
“Success!” F’nor cried as the Weyrleader entered. “Though how you knew to send just thirty-two candidates I’ll never understand. I thought you were insulting our noble Pridith. But thirty-two eggs she laid in four days. It was all I could do to keep from riding out when the first appeared.”
F’lar responded with hearty congratulations, relieved that there would be at least that much benefit from this apparently ill-fated venture. Now all he had to figure out was how much longer F’nor had stayed south until his frantic visit the night before. For there were no worry lines or strain in F’nor’s grinning, well-tanned face.
“No queen egg?” asked F’lar hopefully. With thirty-two in the one experiment, perhaps they could send a second queen back and try again.
F’nor’s face lengthened. “No, and I was sure there would be. But there are fourteen bronzes. Pridith outmatched Ramoth there,” he added proudly.
“Indeed she did. How goes the Weyr otherwise?”
F’nor frowned, shaking his head against an inner bewilderment. “Kylara’s . . . well, she’s a problem. Stirs up trouble constantly. T’bor leads a sad time with her, and he’s so touchy everyone keeps a distance from him.” F’nor brightened a little. “Young N’ton is shaping up into a fine wingleader, and his bronze may outfly T’bor’s Orth when Pridith flies to mate the next time. Not that I’d wish Kylara on N’ton . . . or anyone.”
“No trouble then with supplies?”
F’nor laughed outright. “If you hadn’t made it so plain we must not communicate with you here, we could supply you with fruits and fresh greens that are superior to anything in the north. We eat the way dragonmen should! F’lar, we must consider a supply Weyr down there. Then we shall never have to worry about tithing trains and . . .”
“In good time. Get back now. You know you must keep these visits short.”
F’nor grimaced. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I’m not here in this time, anyway.”
“True,” F’lar agreed, “but don’t mistake the time and come while you’re still here.”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, that’s right. I forget time is creeping for us and speeding for you. Well, I shan’t be back again till Pridith lays the second clutch.”
With a cheerful good-bye, F’nor strode out of the weyr. F’lar watched him thoughtfully as he slowly retraced his steps to the Council Room. Thirty-two new dragons, fourteen of them bronzes, was no small gain and seemed worth the hazard. Or would the hazard wax greater?
Someone cleared his throat deliberately. F’lar looked up to see Robinton standing in the archway that led to the Council Room.
“Before I can copy and instruct others about those maps, Weyrleader, I must myself understand them completely. I took the liberty of remaining behind.”
“You make a good champion, Masterharper.”
“You have a noble cause, Weyrleader,” and then Robinton’s eyes glinted maliciously. “I’ve been begging the Egg for an opportunity to speak out to so noble an audience.”
“A cup of wine first?”
“Benden grapes are the envy of Pern.”
“If one has the palate for such a delicate bouquet.”
“It is carefully cultivated by the knowledgeable.”
F’lar wondered when the man would stop playing with words. He had more on his mind than studying the time-charts.
“I have in mind a ballad which, for lack of explanation, I had set aside when I became the Master of my crafthall,” he said judiciously after an appreciative savoring of his wine. “It is an uneasy song both the tune and the words. One develops, as a harper must, a certain sensitivity for what will be received and what will be rejected . . . forcefully,” and he winced in retrospect. “I found that this ballad unsettled singer as well as audience and retired it from use. Now, like