The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [49]
Ramoth had settled into her weyr again and was already drowsing when F’lar brought the train-captain into the quarters.
“Weyrwoman,” F’lar said, “this messenger is from Lytol with duty to you.”
The man, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the glowing golden queen, bowed to Lessa.
“Tilarek, Weyrwoman, from Lytol, Warder of Ruath Hold,” he said respectfully, but his eyes, as he looked at Lessa, were so admiring as to be just short of impudence. He withdrew a message from his belt and hesitated, torn between the knowledge that women did not read and his instructions to give it to the Weyrwoman. Just as he caught F’lar’s amused reassurance, Lessa extended her hand imperiously.
“The queen sleeps,” F’lar remarked, indicating the passageway to the Council Room.
Adroit of F’lar, Lessa thought, to be sure the messenger had a long look at Ramoth. Tilarek would spread the word on his return journey, properly elaborated with each retelling, of the queen’s unusual size and fine health. Let Tilarek also broadcast his opinion of the new Weyrwoman.
Lessa waited until she saw F’lar offer the courier wine before she opened the skin. As she deciphered Lytol’s inscription, Lessa realized how glad she was to receive news of Ruatha. But why did Lytol’s first words have to be:
The babe grows strong and is healthy . . .
She cared little for that infant’s prosperity. Ah . . .
Ruatha is green-free, from hill crown to crafthold verge. The harvest has been very good, and the beasts multiply from the new studs. Herewith is the due and proper tithe of Ruath Hold. May it prosper the Weyr which protects us.
Lessa snorted under her breath. Ruatha knew its duty, true, but not even the other three tithing holds had sent proper greetings. Lytol’s message contained ominously:
A word to the wise. With Fax’s death, Telgar has come to the fore in the growing sedition. Meron, so-called Lord of Nabol, is strong and seeks, I feel, to be first: Telgar is too cautious for him. The dissension strengthens and is more widespread than when I last spoke with Bronze Rider F’lar. The Weyr must be doubly on its guard. If Ruatha may serve, send word.
Lessa scowled at the last sentence. It only emphasized the fact that too few Holds served in any way.
“. . . laughed at we were, good F’lar,” Tilarek was saying, moistening his throat with a generous gulp of Weyr-made wine, “for doing as men ought.
“Funny thing, that, for the nearer we got to Benden Range the less laughing we heard. Sometimes it’s hard to make sense of some things, being as how you don’t do ’em much. Like if I were not to keep my sword arm strong and used to the weight of a blade,” and he made vigorous slashes and thrusts with his right arm, “I’d be put to it to defend myself come a long-drawn fight. Some folk, too, believe what the loudest talker says. And some folk because it frightens them not to. However,” he went on briskly, “I’m soldier-bred and it goes hard to take the gibes of mere crafters and holders. But we’d orders to keep our swords sheathed, and we did. Just as well,” he said with a wry grimace, “to talk soft. The Lords have kept full guard since . . . since the Search . . .”
Lessa wondered what he had been about to say, but he went on soberly.
“There are those that’ll be sorry when the Threads fall again on all that green around their doors.”
F’lar refilled the man’s cup, asking casually about the harvests seen on the road here.
“Fine, fat and heavy,” the courier assured him. “They do say this Turn has been the best in memory of living man. Why, the vines in Crom had bunches this big!” He made a wide circle with his two huge hands, and his listeners made proper response. “And I’ve never seen the Telgar grain so full and heavy. Never.”
“Pern prospers,” F’lar remarked dryly.
“Begging your pardon”—Tilarek picked up a wizened piece of fruit from the tray—“I’ve scooped better than this dropped on the road behind a harvest wagon.” He ate the fruit in two bites, wiping his hands on the tunic. Then, realizing what he had said, he added in hasty