The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [81]
“There’s Weyrblood in the Ruathan line,” she said proudly.
“Granted. Take young Naton; he’s craftbred from Nabol, yet F’nor tells me he can make Canth understand him.”
“Oh, that’s not hard to do,” she interjected.
“What do you mean?” F’lar jumped on her statement.
They were both interrupted by a high-pitched, penetrating whine. F’lar listened intently for a moment and then shrugged, grinning.
“Some green’s getting herself chased again.”
“And that’s another item these so-called all-knowing Records of yours never mention. Why is it that only the gold dragon can reproduce?”
F’lar did not suppress a lascivious chuckle.
“Well, for one thing, firestone inhibits reproduction. If they never chewed stone, a green could lay, but at best they produce small beasts, and we need big ones. And, for another thing”—his chuckle rolled out as he went on deliberately, grinning mischievously—“if the greens could reproduce, considering their amorousness and the numbers we have of them, we’d be up to our ears in dragons in next to no time.”
The first whine was joined by another, and then a low hum throbbed as if carried by the stones of the Weyr itself.
F’lar, his face changing rapidly from surprise to triumphant astonishment, dashed up the passage.
“What’s the matter?” Lessa demanded, picking up her skirts to run after him. “What does that mean?”
The hum, resonating everywhere, was deafening in the echo-chamber of the queen’s weyr. Lessa registered the fact that Ramoth was gone. She heard F’lar’s boots pounding down the passage to the ledge, a sharp ta-ta-tat over the kettledrum booming hum. The whine was so high-pitched now that it was inaudible, but still nerve-racking. Disturbed, frightened, Lessa followed F’lar out.
By the time she reached the ledge, the Bowl was a-whir with dragons on the wing, making for the high entrance to the Hatching Ground. Weyrfolk, riders, women, children, all screaming with excitement, were pouring across the Bowl to the lower entrance to the Ground.
She caught sight of F’lar, charging across to the entrance, and she shrieked at him to wait. He couldn’t have heard her across the bedlam.
Fuming because she had the long stairs to descend, then must double back as the stairs faced the feeding grounds at the opposite end of the Bowl from the Hatching Ground, Lessa realized that she, the Weyrwoman, would be the last one there.
Why had Ramoth decided to be secretive about laying? Wasn’t she close enough to her own weyrmate to want her with her?
A dragon knows what to do, Ramoth calmly informed Lessa.
You could have told me, Lessa wailed, feeling much abused.
Why, at the time F’lar had been going on largely about huge clutches and three thousand beasts, that infuriating dragon-child had been doing it!
It didn’t improve Lessa’s temper to have to recall another remark of F’lar’s—on the state of the Hatching Grounds. The moment she stepped into the mountain-high cavern, she felt the heat through the soles of her sandals. Everyone was crowded in a loose circle around the far end of the cavern. And everyone was swaying from foot to foot. As Lessa was short to begin with, this only decreased the likelihood of her ever seeing what Ramoth had done.
“Let me through!” she demanded imperiously, pounding on the wide backs of two tall riders.
An aisle was reluctantly opened for her, and she went through, looking neither to her right or left at the excited weyrfolk. She was furious, confused, hurt, and knew she looked ridiculous because the hot sand made her walk with a curious mincing quickstep.
She halted, stunned and wide-eyed at the mass of eggs, and forgot such trivial things as hot feet.
Ramoth was curled around the clutch, looking enormously pleased with herself. She, too, kept shifting, closing and opening a protective wing over her eggs, so that it was difficult to count them.
No one will steal them, silly, so stop fluttering, Lessa advised as she tried to make a tally.