The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [247]
“My turn now, I believe, since all the Lord Holders have had one sighting.”
“Only fair,” Sangel said loudly, glaring at Oterel.
Lessa watched the Masterharper closely, saw the tightening of his broad shoulders as he, too, felt the impact of that first sight of their ancient enemy. He did not remain long, or perhaps she was deceived, but he straightened slowly from the eyepiece and looked thoughtfully toward the Red Star in the dark heavens above them.
“Well, Harper?” asked Meron superciliously. “You’ve a glib word for every occasion.”
Robinton regarded the Nabolese for a longer moment than he had the Star.
“I think it wiser that we keep this distance between us.”
“Ha! I thought as much.” Meron was grinning with odious triumph.
“I wasn’t aware you thought,” Robinton remarked quietly.
“What do you mean, Meron?” Lessa asked in a dangerously edged voice, “you thought as much?”
“Why, it should be obvious,” and the Lord of Nabol had not tempered his attitude toward her much since his first insult. “The Harper does as Benden Weyr decrees. And since Benden Weyr does not care to exterminate Thread at source . . .”
“And how do you know that?” Lessa demanded coldly.
“And, Lord Nabol, on what grounds do you base your allegation that the Harper of Pern does as Benden Weyr decrees? For I most urgently suggest that you either prove such an accusation instantly or retract it.” Robinton’s hand was on his belt knife.
The bronze lizard on Meron’s arm began to hiss and extend his fragile wings in alarm. The Lord of Nabol contented himself with a knowing smirk as he made a show of soothing his lizard.
“Speak up, Meron,” Oterel demanded.
“But it’s so obvious. Surely you can all see that,” Meron replied with malicious affability and a feigned surprise at the obtuseness of the others. “He has a hopeless passion for—the Benden Weyrwoman.”
For a moment Lessa could only stare at the man in a stunned daze. It was true that she admired and respected Robinton. She was fond of him, she supposed. Always glad to see him and never bothering to disguise it but—Meron was mad. Trying to undermine the country’s faith in dragonmen with absurd, vicious rumors. First Kylara and now . . . And yet Kylara’s weakness, her promiscuity, the general attitude of the Hold and Craft toward the customs of the Weyrs made his accusation so plausible . . .
Robinton’s hearty guffaw startled her. And wiped the smile from Nabol’s face.
“Benden’s Weyrwoman has not half the attraction for me that Benden’s wine has!”
There was such intense relief in the faces around her that Lessa knew, in a sinking, sick way, that the Lord Holders had been halfway to believing Meron’s invidious accusation. If Robinton had not responded just as he had, if she had started to protest the accusation . . . She grinned, too, managed to chuckle because the Masterharper’s fondness for wine, for the Benden wines in particular, was such common knowledge, it was more plausible than Meron’s slander. Ridicule was a better defense than truth.
“Furthermore,” the Harper went on, “the Masterharper of Pern has no opinion, one way or another, about the Red Star—not even a verse. Because that—that—child’s miggsy scares him juiceless and makes him yearn for some of that Benden wine, right now, in limitless quantity.” Robinton had not the slightest trace of laughter in his voice now. “I’m too steeped in the history and lore of our beloved Pern, I’ve sung too many ballads about the evil of the Red Star to want to get any closer to it. Even that—” and he pointed to the distance-viewer, “brings it far too near me. But the men who have to fight Thread day after day, Turn after Turn, can look upon it with less fearfulness than the poor Harper. And, Meron, Lord Holder of Nabol, you can wager every field and cot and hall upon your lands that the dragonmen of every Weyr would like to be quit of any obligation to keep your hide Threadfree—even if it means wiping Thread from every squared length of that Star.” The vehemence in the Harper’s voice caused Meron to take a backward step, to clap a hand on the violently