The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [16]
Wishing she could as easily unburden her conscience of such blasphemy, she ditched the ashes on the stable midden. There was a sudden change in air pressure around her. Then a fleeting shadow caused her to glance up.
From behind the cliff above glided a dragon, its enormous wings spread to their fullest as he caught the morning updraft. Turning effortlessly, he descended. A second, a third, a full wing of dragons followed in soundless flight and patterned descent, graceful and awesome. The claxon rang belatedly from the Tower, and from within the kitchen there issued the screams and shrieks of the terrified drudges.
Lessa took cover. She ducked into the kitchen where she was instantly seized by the assistant cook and thrust with a buffet and a kick toward the sinks. There she was put to scrubbing the grease-encrusted serving utensils with cleansing sand.
The yelping canines were already lashed to the spitrun, turning a scrawny herdbeast that had been set to roast. The cook was ladling seasonings on the carcass, swearing at having to offer so poor a meal to so many guests, some of them of high rank. Winter-dried fruits from the last scanty harvest had been set to soak, and two of the oldest drudges were scraping roots to be boiled.
An apprentice cook was kneading bread and another carefully spicing a sauce. Looking fixedly at him, Lessa diverted his hand from one spice box to a less appropriate one as he gave a final shake to the concoction. She innocently added too much wood to the wall oven to insure the ruin of the breads. She controlled the canines deftly, slowing one and speeding the other so that the meat would be underdone on one side, burned on the other. That the feast should result in fast, with the food presented found inedible, was her whole intention.
Above, in the Hold, she had no doubt that certain other measures, undertaken at different times for this exact contingency, were being discovered.
Her fingers bloodied from a beating, one of the Warder’s women came shrieking into the kitchen, hopeful of refuge there.
“Insects have eaten the best blankets to shreds! And a canine who had littered on the best linens snarled at me as she gave suck. And the rushes are noxious, and the best chambers full of debris driven in by the winter wind. Somebody left the shutters ajar. Just a tiny bit, but it was enough,” the woman wailed, clutching her hand to her breast and rocking back and forth.
Lessa bent with great industry to shine the plates.
Watch-wher, watch-wher,
In your lair,
Watch well, watch-wher!
Who goes there?
“The watch-wher is hiding something,” F’lar told F’nor as they consulted in the hastily cleaned great chamber. The room delighted to hold the wintry chill, although a generous fire now burned on the hearth.
“It was but gibbering when Canth spoke to it,” F’nor remarked. He was leaning against the mantel, turning slightly from side to side to gather some warmth. He watched his wingleader’s impatient pacing.
“Mnementh is calming it down,” F’lar replied. “He may be able to sort out the nightmare. The creature may be more senile than sane, but . . .”
“I doubt it,” F’nor concurred helpfully. He glanced with apprehension up at the web-hung ceiling. He was certain he’d found most of the crawlers, but he didn’t fancy their sting. Not on top of the discomforts already experienced in this forsaken Hold. If the night stayed mild, he intended curling up with Canth on the heights. “That would be a more reasonable suggestion than Fax or his Warder have made.”
“Hmmm,” F’lar muttered, frowning at the brown rider.
“Well, it’s unbelievable that Ruatha could have fallen to such disrepair in ten short Turns. Every dragon caught the feeling of power, and it’s obvious the watch-wher has been tampered with. That takes a good deal of control.”
“From someone of the Blood,” F’lar reminded him.
F’nor shot his wingleader a quick look, wondering if he could possibly be serious in the light of all information to the contrary.
“I grant you there is power here, F’lar,