The entire mass followed the two queens down, hovering as Ramoth and Solth delicately placed their burden on the bier, the hammock falling gracefully to either side. An honor escort of Holders stepped forward to bear the coffin the last few lengths to its final resting place.

   The massed dragonriders swirled, each keeping its Weyr formation, and came to rest either on Telgar’s fireheights or as a border to the assembled. Then Larad stepped forward, his sons behind him, as Aivas had confirmed that they were, indeed, the direct descendants of Sallah Telgar and Tarvi Andiyar.

   “Let this be a day of rejoicing that this valiant lady has returned to the world she gave her life to protect. Let her rest now with others of the Blood in the Hold that bears her name and honors her above all its ancestors.”

   With those simple words, Larad stepped aside, and the coffin was lifted to the shoulders of the escort and carried in measured step toward the tomb. As the coffin was placed inside, the dragons, one and all, lifted their heads to keen. A heart-tearing sound on any occasion, but to Robinton, tears streaming down his face, the notes had an oddly triumphant ring. As if in response to that, an immense flurry of wings was heard, and what must have been every fire-lizard in the North and South, wild and tame, swooped down in a deep, wide aerial veil just above the heads of the escort, across the still open tomb, adding their high voices in counterpoint to the dragons’ deeper tones. Then they swept up and, at the top of Telgar’s precipice, abruptly disappeared.

   Robinton had wondered where Zair had gone to, and only now realized that those around him who were usually adorned by a fire-lizard had had empty shoulders from the moment the massed dragon wings had appeared in the sky.

   The escort, somewhat stunned by that final flourish to the solemn event, stepped back, and the Telgar masons, their Gather-best clothes protected by new aprons, moved forward to seal the opening.

   In respectful silence-for even the youngest had been awed by the dragon and fire-lizard displays-the assembled waited until the tomb was completely closed and the masons stood aside. Larad and Jissamy moved together to face the tomb and bowed deeply, as did the escort. The obeisance was repeated by everyone present.

   Then Larad, his lady, and the escort stepped back and proceeded toward the broad court of Telgar Hold. Domick’s musicians began to play a solemn and majestic piece to signal the end of the ceremonies. They followed behind the last of the crowd dispersing to enjoy the hospitality of Telgar Hold.

   Robinton was looking forward with great anticipation to tasting one of the roast beasts turning on the great spits, not to mention a fine vintage of Benden wine that he was certain Larad would provide him, when he felt a touch on his elbow.

   “Robinton!” Jaxom said in a low voice, his eyes sparking with fury. “They tried to attack Aivas. Come!”

   “Tried?” Robinton repeated, shocked. He simply couldn’t comprehend what Jaxom had just said.

   “Tried!” Jaxom repeated grimly, guiding Robinton by the elbow toward the edge of those sauntering along toward the court. “Farli brought just a scribble, so I know no more than that, but I for one can’t stand about here.”

   “Nor I!” Nothing would settle Robinton’s pounding heart until he saw with his own eyes that Aivas had suffered no damage. The very thought of being deprived of the knowledge they were daily gaining from the facility was enough to give him another heart attack. He also decided not to spread the information until he had reassured himself. Shards! He was getting old. Why had he not realized that today would be the perfect time to make a direct attack-when Landing was nearly deserted. Everyone who could come was up here in Telgar.

   “Edge over further, Master Robinton. We’re almost to Ruth now. We’ll just get to Landing and see for ourselves. I don’t think anyone should ruin this,” Jaxom said, gesturing to indicate the festivities.

   “Properly said, Lord Holder.” Robinton moved with more alacrity to where Ruth had been edging toward them as inconspicuously as possible. No one would think it odd that Jaxom and the white dragon would offer to save Robinton the walk back to Telgar Hold court. So they mounted and Ruth, swinging upward and over Telgar cliff, abruptly went between.

   The white dragon came out right above a clearing in front of the Aivas building. As Robinton and Jaxom made their way to the door, those crowding the entrance parted to let them through. Noting their expressions, the Harper was puzzled: anger would have been understandable; amusement was not.

   Lytol was on duty that day-someone had to see that the students appeared for their scheduled courses-permitting D’ram and Robinton to attend the Telgar ceremony. He was sitting in his customary seat, but he wore a bandage on his head and his clothing was torn. Jancis and the Landing healer were in attendance, but she grinned reassuringly at the new arrivals.

   “Don’t worry! His skull’s too hard to crack,” she said gaily. With an expansive wave, she directed their attention down the corridor to Aivas. “And he’s got a few tricks he never bothered to mention.”

   “Go look,” Lytol said with a most uncharacteristic grin of pleased malice.

   Robinton was first down the corridor; he stepped two strides in and stopped, causing Jaxom to bump into him. Standing guard were Piemur and six of the sturdiest students, hefty clubs held at the ready. Two of them wore head bandages. On the floor were the unconscious bodies of the attackers, the heavy axes or metal bars with which they had intended to wreak havoc on Aivas piled beyond reach.

   “Aivas protects himself,” Piemur said with a grin, swinging his club in a circle on its thong.

   “What happened?” Robinton demanded.

   “We were taking a meal break,” Piemur said as Jancis joined him, “when we heard the most awful noise. We rushed back and found Lytol, Ker, and Miskin knocked down, and then this lot acting as if their brains were on fire. Which, from the residual sound we heard, is a fair description.”

   “But what-”

   “This facility was provided with resources to prevent tampering,” Aivas said, his voice reaching down the corridor. As matter-of-fact as the tone was, Robinton also sensed a faint note of satisfaction, certainly permissible, he thought, given the circumstances. “There are sounds that, emitted at volume, can render humans unconscious. When the intruders attacked Lytol, Ker, and Miskin, it seemed advisable to initiate this defensive measure. Regrettably, some permanent aural damage may result, but most should regain consciousness within a few hours. They took more sonics than is-was-normally required in dissuasion.”

   “I-we-had no idea you had defenses,” Robinton said, struggling with both relief and surprise.

   “A built-in feature of any Aivas, Master Robinton, though seldom required. These units are programmed with industrially and politically valuable information, which dissidents would find useful. Unauthorized access and/or destructive actions must, therefore, be actively discouraged, and this has always been a minor function of an Aivas facility.”

   “Well, I must say, I do feel better knowing that, but why didn’t you tell us?”

   “The question didn’t arise.”

   “But you knew there’d been that attempt to ruin your battery power,” Jaxom began.

   “The facility was not in any danger from such crude vandalism. You were quick to provide effective measures against a repeat of such sabotage.”

   “But why didn’t you do whatever you did today then? “ Jaxom asked.

   “Such measures are best invoked during a direct assault, when they are most effective.”

   “What exactly did you do?” Jaxom gestured to the limp bodies.

   “Sonic barrage,” Piemur said, grinning. “Pure and penetrating sound. Must have hurt.” He gestured to one man who lay face-up wearing a contorted expression that suggested the pain he had endured before unconsciousness had relieved it. Piemur gave the body a contemptuous push with his toe. “I don’t know where Norist got them.”

   “Norist?” Robinton exclaimed.

   Piemur shrugged. “Has to be Norist. He’s the one who’s most vocal about destroying the ‘Abomination.’ And look...” He bent and lifted the limp hand of one of the attackers. “Those look like glass-pipe calluses, and he’s certainly got old burn scars on his arms. He’s the only one who has them. But once they wake up, we can ask a few questions. And get answers!” Piemur’s voice took on a harsh edge.

   “Who knows about this?” the Masterharper asked.

   “Everyone presently in Landing,” Piemur said with a shrug, and then grinned impishly. “Which isn’t many, since everyone who could grabbed a dragonride to Telgar. How d that go?”

   “Impressively,” Robinton said almost absently as he moved to check the other would-be vandals. “The dragons and the firelizards accorded her their own tribute.”

   “Ruth didn’t even warn me,” Jaxom added with a wry grin.

   It was fitting. The dragons were in agreement. The fire-lizards imitated them, but that was fitting, too, Ruth told Jaxom, who told the others.

   Robinton didn’t recognize a single face among the attackers. Gloomily he wondered if Norist had indeed planned and organized the assault. “Lytol’s truly all right?” he asked in a low voice, glancing back toward the front entrance.

   “He’s got a terrible bump,” Jancis said, “and the healer says he cracked a rib, falling on the edge of the desk, but his pride’s more injured than his skull. You should have heard him complaining that Ker and Miskin were too slow on their feet to be of any assistance.”

   “Against eight men armed with axes and bars?” Robinton said, appalled at the possible harm such implements could have done to his friend, much less to Aivas. He found himself swaying a bit on his feet.

   Immediately Piemur grabbed him, roaring at Jaxom to take the other side and ordering Jancis to get the healer and some wine, and they helped him into the nearest room- and into a chair. Protestingly, he flailed at their hands, but even to his own ears his voice held a quaver of weakness that appalled him.

   “It’s time to bespeak Lessa and F’lar,” Jaxom said, “and I don’t bloody care what excuse they give Larad. Ruth!”

   As Robinton lifted a hand to object, Jaxom’s expression told him that he had already given Ruth the message to forward. Jancis arrived with a huge mug of wine, which Robinton sipped gratefully while the healer fussed at him.

   “The Masterharper has taken no harm; his vital signs are restored to acceptable levels,” Aivas said. “Do not distress yourself, Master Robinton, for there has been no lasting harm done to humans and none to this facility.”

   “That is not the point, Aivas,” Jaxom said, whirling around. “No harm should have been considered, much less attempted.”

   “The winds of change create a climate of resistance. That is to be expected.”

   “By you?” Jaxom asked, irritated by Aivas’s imperturbability. Why hadn’t they realized how ideal this day was to dissidents like Norist, who would have known that Robinton and D’ram would attend the honors done Sallah Telgar, that anyone who could grab a ride a-dragonback would be gone from Landing?

   “And me. Ease up, lad,” Lytol said, entering the room just then. “I figured an attempt might be made. That’s why I made Ker and Miskin stay back. But I didn’t think there’d be so many of ‘em. Rushed us, and wed no chance.” He looked keenly at Robinton. “Humpf. You look much the way I feel, Robinton.” He lowered himself carefully into the nearest chair. “Master Esselin was with me at the time, but he fainted when that gang barged in. I hadn’t thought to arm the students. They were nearby, and fifteen of ‘em should have been sufficient deterrent.”

   Just then two of Esselin’s young apprentice archivists came running down the corridor, shouting for Piemur.

   “Quietly!” Piemur bellowed, then grimaced in apology.

   “Harper, we found their runners, tied up in a copse just off the old sea road,” the older lad reported. “Silfar and I rode a pair back after we’d moved ‘em from where they was in case someone escaped. Trestan and Rona stayed ‘cos Rona has a fire-lizard.” His eyes were big in his flushed young face, and he was panting from excitement, as well as exertion. The eyes of the bronze fire-lizard clinging to his shoulder were whirling in violent patterns of red and orange.

   “Well done, Deegan,” Piemur said. “Have you winded your runners?”

   “No, sir, Harper.” Deegan’s expression became indignant at the thought of injuring a valuable beast. “They’re sweet movers. Cost a pouch or two for that sort of runner, sir.”

   “Send your bronze to reassure Rona and go back and bring in the others. We might find something interesting in their gear.”

   “All they had in their saddle packs was food, sir,” Deegan added apologetically. “I looked, ‘cos I thought there might be some clues.”

   Again Piemur nodded approval. “Off you go, then.” He turned grimly to the others. “There’re more in on this than Norist and his cranks. How’d expensive runners get south? Who put up the marks to buy eight and send ‘em here?”

   “Meaning a dissident Masterfisher is also involved?” Jaxom asked.

   “That’s the one craft that has not benefited very much from Aivas’s stored information,” Piemur said, frowning.

   Robinton shook his head, but it was Lytol who spoke. “Not at all, Piemur. Master Idarolan was exceedingly grateful to Aivas for the detailed charts of depths and currents that Captain Tillek compiled. The overviews from space are truly astounding.” Lytol paused in respectful awe, then shrugged. “Of course, there have been alterations in coastlines since then, but the accuracy of the charts makes it all that much easier to update them. Every master has been given copies, and specific area charts are being supplied to every fisherman. What Master Idarolan approves is accepted by every master of his craft.”

   “True enough,” Piemur replied, but added in a sardonic tone, “though I can think of one or two extremely conservative and hidebound Masterfishers, without naming any names, who might sympathize with Norist’s discontent. Look at how many people made it to Southern who weren’t supposed to.”

   “A full purse can close many a mouth,” Lytol added cynically.

   “Let us not make rash assumptions,” Robinton said.

   “Lessa says it’s impossible for either herself or F’lar to come,” Jaxom reported at that point. “But F’nor can. The Weyrleaders’re both livid and want to know how such an attack could occur.”

   One of the assault group stirred, moaning.

   “We’ll find out!” Jaxom and Piemur said simultaneously, and exchanged grimly determined glances.

   “Might I suggest we tie these fellows up before they regain their wits?” Robinton asked, eyeing the sizes and comparing them to the slighter frames of the student guards.

   “Yes, and we’ve just the thing to hand.” Piemur reached for a coil of thick flex, a savage grin on his face. “C’mon, you lot,” he said, turning to the students, “let’s truss these sharding dimwits up properly.”

   Once restraints were in place, each man’s clothing was searched, but the exercise proved fruitless. Old scars, thick ears, and broken noses suggested that five of the eight had fought often. Only the one bore marks of the glass-smith craft, but the remaining two were equally rough livers.

   “Swacky might know some of ‘em,” Piemur suggested. “He’s been sergeant at arms in enough Holds over the Turns to know a lot of the regulars.”

   “They’d hardly pick men wed recognize, now would they?” Robinton said. “But if Swacky could identify any one of them, that might give us a direction for inquiry. Aivas, how long will they remain unconscious?”

   Aivas said that the period was variable. “The duller the subject, the more sonic barrage is required. As you see, they survived to the very threshold.”

   “I don’t like that at all,” Robinton said explosively.

   “However, they would not have passed the threshold,” Aivas assured him.

   Robinton shuddered and drank down the rest of his wine. “Let’s get them out of the hall. Surely we have some secure building to hold them in. It’s almost-almost obscene leaving them sprawled in the hallway like this.”

   “Assistance just arrived,” Jaxom said.

   They heard the bugling challenge of many dragons-F’nor, T’gellan, Mirrim, and nearly a full wing of Eastern Weyr riders.

   “From now on there will be full dragon surveillance for Aivas,” F’nor said when he had heard Lytol’s concise report.

   “Eastern insists on the honor,” T’gellan said.

   “I just wish it hadn’t come to this,” Robinton said, shaking his head wearily.

   “My dear friend,” Lytol said, placing a consoling hand on the Harper’s shoulder, “it was bound to happen. You should have taken time to read the histories as I did. You would then have been better prepared for the cultural upheaval which is occurring in every Hold, Hall, and Weyr.”

   “I had hoped that Aivas would insure a bright future for us all...” Robinton began, raising his arms in an expansive gesture before letting them fall limply to his knees.

   “That’s because you’re the eternal optimist,” Lytol said with a sad smile.

   “That’s no bad way to be,” Piemur said firmly, shooting Lytol a quelling glare. It pained the young journeyman to see his master so depressed and listless. The warder shrugged and turned away to hide his cynicism.

   T’gellan dispatched a rider to bring Swacky from Paradise River Hold in the hope that he might recognize one of the intruders. Jayge, reckoning that he, too, might be of some help since he had seen so much of the Eastern Holds during his trading days, arrived with Swacky.

   “Yeah, I recognize this pair,” Swacky said, reaching out to turn one lolling head from side to side. “Bitrans, if I remember rightly. Bitrans’ll do anything if you give ‘em enough marks.”

   “Any name come to mind, Swacky?” F’nor asked, frowning.

   Swacky gave a shrug of his thick shoulders. “No. Bitrans aren’t friendly, and I don’t think you’re going to get much out of this lot. They’re too stubborn to give in and too stupid to give up. They do stay bought,” he added with grudging respect.

   Jayge, kneeling by another man, shook his head. “I know him. I don’t know where I know him from. I’ll tell you one thing, though-he’s worked fishnets. Look at these three-corner tears on his fingers and palms. That’s net damage.”

   Robinton heaved a long sigh, and Lytol looked grimmer than ever.

   When the first of them finally regained consciousness late that evening, he stared around with bleak panic in his face; it soon became obvious that he had lost his hearing. To written questions he merely shook his head. Consultations between Aivas and the healer about a return of hearing produced no helpful results.

   “As a consequence to the extreme deterrent required to prevent their entry, regrettably permanent damage may have been inflicted,” Aivas said.

   When the vandals’ animals were brought in, none of the gear identified its source. The saddles were new but bore no leatherman’s stamp; the runners were not ear-notched or branded and betrayed the nervousness of very green animals.

   “Probably stolen from Keroon or Telgar herds before spring culls” was the opinion of Masterherder Briaret, who came the next day to assist in the inquiry. “Whoever chose them knew his runners and picked those that don’t show any particular characteristics from sire or dam. They was rough broke,” he added, looking into the mouth of one and pointing out biting scars, “never been shod, and came by sea.” He indicated the marks on hips, rumps, and shoulders that had been caused by rubbing against the sides of the narrow stalls used to transport animals by ship. “Don’t think we’ll find out where they was stolen from, but I’ll put the word out to my Halls.”

   The tack, he said, was all apprentice-made, pointing out the flaws that would have made them unsalable at any reputable Tannerhall.

   “These could have been picked up from various Halls over the course of a Turn or two, from ‘prentices needing Gathermarks. I’d say that whoever planned this has planned long and well,” the Masterherder stated.

   The sturdy but worn clothing was of a style and fabric available all across the continent, and the camping equipment had seen considerable use.

   “Could’ve staked out here for a spell, just waiting for a good opportunity,” Briaret guessed. “Like the ceremony at Telgar.”

   In one saddlebag the searchers found a small collapsible telescope of the sort used by fishermen, but it bore no other mark than the usual Telgar Smith stamp on the metal rim of the eyepiece.

   When Master Idarolan was asked his opinion, he was outraged that any of his Craft could have been involved. He promised to investigate, admitting that there were some who were, unfortunately, no credit to their calling and were not above making a clandestine voyage for a full purse of marks after a bad season. He would name no one as yet, but he knew whom to watch, he assured everyone.

   Swacky volunteered to stay at Landing as warder of the invaders, hoping that he might yet get one of them to confide in him.

   Jayge lingered, too, finally admitting to Piemur and Jancis that he would very much like an interview with Aivas, if that was at all possible.

   “No problem, Jayge,” Piemur reassured him. He grinned broadly. “Beginning to think all this new technology has some use?”

   Jayge gave a wry chuckle. “I need to know if Readis and Alemi are both losing their wits. They swear they’ve had more conversations with shipfish-dolphins. The dolphins say they came with the original settlers.” Jayge set his jaw as if waiting for derision.

   “Dolphins did come with the settlers, Jayge,” Piemur reassured him. Jancis nodded, as well. Then the young harper’s expression turned rueful. “We’ve been so busy with space that we really still haven’t caught up on other important details. Croon. Everyone else’s busy with the intruders right now, so Aivas is free.”

   “The dolphins are indeed capable of communicating with humans,” Aivas told Jayge when he asked. “Mentasynth enhancement is genetically transmitted, so that the ability would have survived through any number of generations. They were the most successful of the mentasynth experiments. It is good to know that the species has survived. Are they numerous? It would appear from the question, Holder Jayge, that contact has not been maintained. Is that so?”

   “No, it has not,” Jayge admitted apologetically. “Though my wife and myself, as well as my son and Masterfisherman Alemi, owe our lives to them.”

   “The species has always been considerate of humankind.

   “And they do speak a language we humans could learn?”

   “Since humans taught them the language, yes. But it would be the language of your ancestors, not that which is in current usage. This facility was able to make linguistic adjustments that would not be available to the dolphins, despite their great intelligence.”

   “The shipfish have great intelligence?” Piemur asked in surprise.

   “They possess an intelligence measurably equal to, if not surpassing, most human intellects.”

   “I find that hard to believe,” Piemur muttered.

   “Believe it,” Aivas replied. “Holder Jayge, if you are interested in reviving the communications link with dolphins, this facility would be glad to assist you.”

   Jayge grimaced. “It’s not me, Aivas. I was just here and wanted to know. It’s my son, Readis, and our Masterfisherman Alemi, who thought the dolphins were speaking.”

   “The resumption of that link could be of great value to fishermen and all who use the seaways. Time can be allotted to that study.”

   “I’ll tell Alemi. He’ll be delighted to hear it.”

   “Your son?”

   “Oh, Readis is a child.”

   “A child has fewer inhibitions in learning new languages, Holder Jayge.”

  Jayge’s eyes bulged in surprise. “But he’s only five!”

   “A most receptive age. This facility would take great pleasure in instructing young Readis.”

   “I’d really thought you all were embellishing your accounts of that Aivas of yours,” Jayge said in a low voice to the grinning pair who escorted him out of the room, “but you were harpertrue this time.”

   “Aivas doesn’t need embellishments,” Piemur assured him smugly.

   “You will bring Readis, won’t you?” Jancis asked. “Tell Ara that I’d take very good care of him while he’s here.” She giggled. “I think it’s the best thing I’ve heard yet. Shipfish are smarter than us humans!”

   “I think we better keep quiet on that score,” Piemur said, his expression solemn. “We’ve got enough trouble as it is. That opinion’d really start a snake hunt. Even with folks who’ve got a lot of common sense.”

   “I think it’s marvelous,” Jancis repeated, grinning in broad malice. “It’s perfect. Alemi’ll be over the moons.”

   Jayge looked chagrined. “Ara’ll beat him there. She swore blind that the dolphins talked to her when they saved us from drowning.”

   “Then bring Ara, too,” Piemur suggested. “There ought to be more than just two to learn dolphin talk. Say, you know it might be smart to teach more kids than just Readis. Not meaning to detract from him, Jayge, but if, say, we put it about that Aivas was teaching mainly kids, no adults would get suspicious. Because I’m serious, people. I don’t think we ought to spread this intelligence thing about.”

   “I agree,” Jancis said.

   Jayge shrugged. “I’ll accept that judgment. And I’ll bring Readis, Alemi, and whoever else he thinks we should include. Talking to shipfish! Wow! That’s a real stunner.” And he shook his head slowly as his friends escorted him back to where V’line and bronze Clarmath waited to convey him back to Paradise River Hold.

   The day before the Lord Holders Conference, the Benden Weydeaders held a short meeting at Cove Hold to decide whether to bring up the matter of the attempt to disable Aivas.

   By then all eight men had recovered from the sonic coma: two would never be of use to anyone; none had recovered their hearing. Three wrote messages asking for relief from unbearable head pains, which finally abated after considerable dosing with fellis juice. Since none of them were willing to divulge any information about those who had hired them to attack Aivas, his guardians had no recourse but to have them all transported to the mines of Crom to work underground with other incorrigibles.

   “Why do we have to bring the subject up at all? Let’s just let rumor work for us,” Master Robinton suggested with a devious smile. “Let them ask us for explanations. That is, if any are required.”

   “Seeing it my way for a change?” Lytol asked sardonically.

   “The rumors are alive and exploding with inventiveness,” Jaxom said, grinning at Piemur.

   “I’m not sure that’s altogether the wisest course,” Lessa said, scowling.

   “Who has ever controlled rumor?” Robinton demanded.

   “You!” Lessa retorted promptly, her scowl disappearing into a wide smile for the person who had so often deliberately spread rumors.

   “Not really,” Robinton replied smugly. “Not after I sent off the original version.”

   “Well, then, what’s being bruited about right now?” F’lar asked.

   “That Aivas perceives the motives of anyone approaching him and has withered the unworthy,” Piemur answered eagerly, ticking off the variations of his fingers. “That he horribly maimed some innocent petitioners who had the audacity to approach him early one morning because they overheard him plotting with Lord Jaxom.” Jaxom had apparently heard that variation and only snorted. “That we installed a squadron of Gather champions to defend the place and they’ll beat up anyone they didn’t like the look of; that there is a full wing of dragons constantly on guard and that they are somehow under Aivas’s complete control; that fire-lizards are afraid of their lives to come near Landing anymore; that the Aivas has deadly and powerful weapons that can paralyze anyone not totally committed to his intentions for Pern’s future. That Aivas has control of all Weyrleaders and Lord Holders-” Piemur had to wait until the indignation of the attending Weydeaders subsided. “-and was going to take over the running of the planet, and that all too soon the three Dawn Sisters were going to come crashing down on Pern, causing irreparable damage to any Hold or Hall that won’t support Aivas. And if the Dawn Sisters lose their position in the sky, all the other stars will go out of control, so that’s how Aivas will prevent any further Threadfall, because Pern will be totally destroyed and not even Thread will find it hospitable.” Piemur took a deep breath and, his eyes glinting with amusement, asked, “Heard enough?”

   “All I care to, certainly,” Lessa said with considerable asperity. “Absolute twaddle!”

   “Is anyone taking any of it seriously?” F’lar asked, leaning forward.

   Lytol sucked in his breath. “Some of that foolishness would account for the extreme tenseness of that delegation from Nerat, that group who applied for advice on how to counteract a blight. Masterfarmer Losacot had to chivvy them to enter the room. I mentioned the fact in my day report.”

   “Did Aivas notice their reluctance?” Lessa asked.

   “I certainly wouldn’t ask Aivas a question like that. Totally irrelevant,” Lytol said, somewhat surprised and indignant. He gave Lessa a sharp look. “The important point is that they apparently received a positive answer, for they were discussing the ways to implement his advice when they left. Master Losacot stopped to thank me for slotting them in so promptly. I thought the matter quite urgent.”

   “I still maintain that the more people who encounter Aivas,” Robinton said, “the more support any plan of his will receive.”

   “Not always,” Lytol disagreed in a low voice.

   Then he smiled at the Harper. “But you and I have agreed to differ on that score, haven’t we?”

   “We have,” the Harper replied affably, but there was a sad shadow in his eyes as he gazed on the old warder.

   “So, what attitude do we take at the Conference tomorrow?” Lessa demanded. “Presuming, of course, the Weyrleaders will be allowed into the meeting.”

   “Oh, you will be,” Jaxom said. “Larad, Groghe, Asgenar, Toronas, and Deckter wouldn’t permit exclusion of Benden and High Reaches Weyrleaders!” He grinned. “I think we ought to wait until they bring up the subject.”

   “Tomorrow’s a solemn occasion, Jaxom,” Lytol said, favoring his former charge with a stern look.

   “Not all of it, and I really can keep countenance when I need to, old friend.” Jaxom grinned engagingly at Lytol and ignored Piemur’s snort. “Since so many of us should be in attendance, T’gellan and K’van have doubled the dragon guard here.”

   “D’ram’s in charge,” Robinton added. “Insisted, since both Lytol and myself ought to attend the Conference.” “As if you’d miss it,” Lessa replied, her eyebrows raised. “This one least of all,” Robinton remarked affably.

9

   IN THE SPRING of the year, Tillek Hold was at its most attractive, for the vivid blue skies seemed to brighten the Hold’s granite cliffs and the sun often. glinted off surfaces that were momentarily silver-gilt. From its position on the heights, the uppermost level of the Hold provided north and south views; on clear days, as today, one could see across the promontory to the southern coastline where the terrain fell away from the Hold height. Today banners flew from every window, brilliant panels in audacious colors bright against the gray stone.

   Below the Hold, the natural deep harbor and the smaller holds and cots on the terraces that made up the large Tillek settlement were also decorated with banners, streamers, and even garlands of the various yellow blooms of spring. Ranrel’s recent labors to improve docking facilities were being put to the test. Many people had elected to sail up the western coast to attend the Conference and the festivities following the confirmation of a new Lord Holder. But so spacious was the anchorage that not even the mass of craft, small and large, strained its capacity.

   To Jaxom’s surprise, Ruth came out of between over the harbor waters, giving him and Sharra an excellent view of the activity below them. It would appear that every small craft that could be paddled or rowed had been drafted to do lighter duty between the visitors’ ships and the new wharf. There was even a line of crafts bobbing at each landing stair waiting to discharge passengers, gay in their festival attire.

   Then Jaxom appreciated why Ruth had elected to bring them out over the water, for the congestion of dragons above the Hold itself would have taxed even the white dragon’s vaunted ability to avoid collision.

   “We really should have brought Jarrol and Shawan to this, Jax,” Sharra yelled in his ear. “They would have adored all the color and excitement.”

   Jaxom shrugged; actually he was glad that Sharra had been dissuaded from that notion. The day was going to be full enough without his having to worry about the antics of two active and inventive little boys. And he wanted Sharra at his side without an incumbrance.

   “There’ll be other investitures, love, when they’re old enough to appreciate it more,” he shouted over his shoulder.

   Ruth descended, moving with more decorum than usual in order to prevent Sharra’s heavy formal skirts from billowing out.

   “The unexpected perils of dragonriding,” Sharra muttered, gathering the fabric in as much as she could while Ruth circled slowly to find a place to land in the crowded forecourt. Then, continuing the conversation that they had broken off to go between, she added, “Am I really to go up to the Yokohama with you the day after tomorrow?”

   “Yes, indeed.” Jaxom was pleased by the excitement in her voice. “Aivas says we’ve got to have the oxygen recycling to spend our time aboard efficiently, even in the few areas we’ll be using. Putting breathable atmosphere in the cargo bay and the engine room is going to take a lot of oxygen, and we can’t keep lugging tanks up and down. You and Mirrim will do just fine setting it up. You know the programs, and the instructions for starting the algae by heart. I heard you muttering the steps in your sleep.” He grinned back at her, thrilled that he would have a chance to share with her the incredible experience of viewing Pern from space and happy for her to have a part in the project that absorbed him almost, he admitted with private candor, to the exclusion of everything else. “Besides, Aivas says the whole program is foolproof but we need the computer-controlled porous-technology CO₂/O₂ to supply sufficient oxygen. The system just wants starting and then regular checks. Once you and Mirrim understand the system, you’ll teach other green riders. And with Path and Mirrim, and you and Ruth, there’ll be proper control on the system. Meanwhile, the greens’ll be hauling oxygen in tanks to tide us over until the system’s fully operational again.”

   “Ruth would take anyone you asked him to,” she reminded him. She wanted more than anything to be the one to join her mate on the Yokohama, but she was also very much aware that the mission could be dangerous. After all, she had two children to think of now, not just herself.

   But I like taking you better, Sharra, Ruth put in. Maynooth says it’s my turn in the forecourt, but you’re to dismount as quickly as you can, he added. Maynooth’s rider is terrified of having a collision while he’s on duty. Ruth added a contemptuous snort for that possibility.

   Jaxom helped Sharra unclip the riding straps and dismount, careful to keep the full skirts of her brand-new gown from becoming entangled in the harness or getting excessively rumpled. The color was an amazingly vibrant blend of green and blue, and the fabric was cut to a pattern that had been found by Masterweaver Zurg in Aivas’s files. Jaxom, stunned anew by her subtle beauty, was torn between pride in his beloved and anxiety that others might monopolize her when the dancing began. With a smile, he helped her shrug out of the equally fetching jacket, its leather dyed a slightly darker shade than her dress, its fur lining too warm to wear in Tillek’s sun. Then he offered his lady his arm, leaving Ruth free to find himself a spot on the sun-warmed heights, and the tall, handsome couple made their way across the crowded forecourt to the Hold entrance, smiling and nodding at friends and acquaintances.

   Sharra chuckled softly. “I see that everyone who could afford it has been spilling marks into the Weavercraft coffers.”

   “I thought Master Zurg looked excessively smug when we passed him.”

   “He should be. Everyone, including that wretched dandy Blesserel, is wearing new clothes, either tailored by or made from fabrics bought from good Master Zurg. Except you.” Sharra said that with a sniff of disapproval. “It wouldn’t have taken much time to have a new outfit for today.”

   “.Why? I’m not exactly threadbare or colorless,” Jaxom replied. He was fond of the deep brown and russet he wore; he thought those colors went well with Sharra’s azure. “And these clothes aren’t all that old. They were new for our last Gather day.”

   Sharra sniffed again. “Half a Turn ago. You don’t care what you wear so long as it’s comfortable. Just look at the variety of style and hue others are wearing.”

   Jaxom closed his right hand over hers on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “You look grand enough for both of us.”

   Sharra gave him a droll sideways glance. “If you’d ever taken the time to be fitted for what I wanted you to wear, we’d outshine everyone else, love.” She gave a resigned sigh. “As it is, it’s just too bad the Craftmasters can’t vote on the succession.”

   “They should, you know,” Jaxom replied. “They’re as vital to the smooth management of Pern as any Lord Holder.”

   “Sshhh,” Sharra said, though her eyes twinkled at his heresy. “You upset sufficient Lord Holders without suggesting that innovation.”

   “It’ll come! It’ll come,” Jaxom said. “Once the conservative element among the Holders are replaced.”

   “What if Ranrel doesn’t make it? Brand did say that there would be protest over his use of the ‘Abomination’s’ materials.”

   Jaxom snorted. “With bloody near everyone else wearing them? Besides, Ranrel’s the only one of Oterel’s issue who’s ever worked. And he’s improved the Hold’s facilities. That has to count heavily in his favor.”

   “Yes, but he’s also a journeyman, which men like Nessel and Corman take as an admission that he himself knows he’s not Holder material.”

   “And Blesserel and Terentel, with their soft hands and steep debts, are? A journeyman’s knot in the Fisherman’s Craft at least says a man has skill, strength, and endurance. And he’s had more of managing men than either of that useless pair,” Jaxom said.

   “Brand mentioned that Blesserel’s been actively striving to get support from Corman of Keroon, Sangel, and Begamon and even went to see Toric.”

   “Well, if he’s promised to help Toric with Denol’s island rebels, he’ll be working against himself,” Jaxom said scornfully.

   “I don’t know about that, Jax, I really don’t,” Sharra said, frowning slightly. “My brother’s devious, as well as plain contrary at times.” Then she smiled as she saw Toronas and his wife heading in their direction.

   “Four votes wouldn’t be enough anyway,” Jaxom murmured with a reassurance he didn’t really believe before the young Benden Holders joined them.

   Robinton had wanted to arrive early at Tillek, to have a stroll around and get the feel of the assemblage. Somehow or other, Lytol had managed to delay their departure so that T’gellan deposited them only just before the actual Conference was due to start. Lytol secured him an oversized goblet of Benden white and insisted that he be seated on one of the few wall benches on the forecourt “for an overall view.” Granted he had that, but he would have preferred to mingle with the crowd and sense the general mood.

   “You’re fussing over me, Lytol!” Robinton said querulously.

   “You’ll have enough excitement...”

   “There are people I wish to speak with down there!”

   “You can’t alter the outcome of today’s proceedings a half hour before they start, Robinton,” Lytol replied.

   “But you can!” Robinton knew that he was being testy with his old friend, and jealous.

   “I will do as common sense dictates, Harper, and when that will be most effective.” Lytol caught sight of Blesserel, Oterel’s firstborn son, clad in uncharacteristically sober dark colors in a conservatively cut outfit. “As if that garb is going to counteract his years as a gaudy guy!” Lytol muttered contemptuously.

   “I don’t see Ramel,” Robinton complained.

   “To your left, on the third riser, speaking to Sigomal,” Lytol said, pointing.

   “Well, good for him. He’s not afraid to parade his accomplishments,” Robinton said after a moment’s regard. The youngest of Oterel’s eligible sons had dressed in Fishcraft colors and wore his journeyman’s knot fastened to his Tillek rank cord. “Ista and High Reaches will appreciate the compliment. And Master Idarolan.”

   “For all the good it does.”

   “Now, if only Craftmasters were allowed in on the voting...” Robinton said, half to tease Lytol and half in wishful thinking. Lytol merely grunted, a surprising reaction since, in previous times, he had been dead set against such an innovation. Was Jaxom having some effect on his former guardian after all? Robinton wondered.

   “Idarolan’s a sound man and manages to keep most of a very wayward lot in line-most of the time,” Lytol said. “But inlanders would not be swayed by his opinions.”

   “Sangel of Boll is scarcely an inlander,” Robinton protested.

   “That doesn’t mean he thinks with his wits,” Lytol replied. “And it’s the undecided Holders that must be swayed one way or another: Sigomal, Nessel, and Deckter.”

   “Deckter will appreciate Ranrel’s harbor reconstruction. He’s got a merchant’s mind on such matters. Blesserel and Terentel have done nothing to improve Tillek Hold.”

   “Sigomal will side with Blesserel, if only to recoup the boy’s gambling losses. You know the way Bitra always turns: markward.”

   The Hold bugler appeared at the massive entrance and blew the ten-minute warning. The babble of the crowd briefly abated, then increased with excitement as the fifteen Lord Holders began to make their way toward the steps. Lytol watched for Jaxom, Sharra on his arm, to emerge from the throng and unobtrusively beckoned him over. Jaxom’s face lit with a big smile as he saw the Harper beside his former warder.

   “My dear Lady Holder, you outshine the day,” Robinton said, rising to take Sharra’s hand warmly in his. “Has everyone here made Zurg markedly richer today?”

   Sharra laughed at his outrageous compliment. Though she was a tall girl, she had to stand on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Even Master Norist,” she whispered in his ear, giggling as she indicated with a nod of her head where the Glassmaster could be seen in the crowd, resplendent in red and yellow. “Did anyone have the nerve to tell him how much Zurg’s Craft has been enhanced by the ‘Abomination’s’ data?”

   Robinton let out a bellow of laughter, beginning to let go of his annoyance with Lytol.

   Sharra took an admiring pinch of his gracefully belled deep blue sleeve. “I see you endured the fittings and pinnings, too.”

   “I was excused them,” Robinton said loftily. “Master Zurg has had my measurements all these years and presented me these glad rags as a token of his Hall’s appreciation for time well spent with Aivas.”

   Sharra affected a shocked expression. “And here I thought you were Pern’s most honest man.”

   “Not even Lytol is.” Robinton gestured at the former Ruathan Warder’s back, for Lytol was just entering Tillek’s Great Hall with Jaxom. “But then Lytol, as a former weaver, has always been particular in matters of dress.”

   “I wish he’d managed to install that particularity in Jaxom.” Sharra sniffed. “I’d chosen such a beautiful fabric, one of the new brocades in marvelous dark blue-green, and he never managed a single fitting.”

   “I fear he fit in other things,” Robinton replied, unable to forgo the wordplay.

   “Oh, you!” Sharra rolled her eyes dramatically, laughing.

   A singularly lovely ripple of laughter, Robinton thought, grinning back at her. Zair, perched on the Harper’s shoulder, chirped agreement.

   Just then the Tillek steward pulled shut the great Hold doors with a finality that echoed across the forecourt. The Harper and Sharra were close enough to hear the clang as the lock was spun shut. Conversation was momentarily stilled, and the kitchen doors opened. Drudges streamed out, carrying trays of klah, chilled fruit juices, and finger foods to ease the tedium of awaiting the decision.

   The clang signaled the Lord Holders within the Great Hall to take their places at the round table. Before them, their places were set with fine glassware and small pitchers of klah, wine beakers, and bowls of succulent fruits.

   The night before, Jaxom had been present at a special meeting-the subject of which had been himself-that included the Benden Weyrleaders, Lytol, Master Robinton, D’ram, and Sebell. He was the youngest Lord Holder, and while he was as capable as any of the much older men, perhaps more so than some, many had not yet forgiven his age.

   “Especially,” Sebell continued, holding Jaxom’s eyes with an apologetic glance, “as you’re working so closely with Aivas.”

   “That figures,” Jaxom said with deep contempt. “And just how many of the oldsters refer to Aivas as the Abomination?”

   Grinning at the epithet, Sebell winked at him. “The ones you’d expect: Corman, Sangel, Nessel, Sigomal, Begamon.”

   “Five, huh?” Jaxom replied. “That means no clear mandate for Ranrel, and I’ll be stuck all day in Council.”

   “With little to say,” Lytol added grimly.

   Jaxom threw up his hands and, jumping from his chair, began to pace the room. “And how much longer do I have to play the idiot before my opinions”-he jabbed a thumb into his chest-“bear any weight?”

   “It’s what you don’t say that will bear weight on this occasion,” Lytol replied crisply.

   “Lytol!” Robinton said warningly, raising an eyebrow at the old Warder. “His actions speak louder than words.”

   “Even if they do get me deeper into trouble with those hidebound relics,” Jaxom said bitterly. “All right, all right.” He spread his hands to pacify the others before he received another lecture. “I appreciate the circumstances. I’ll content myself with voting as I see fit. I’ll be polite when they cast aspersions on Aivas and all we’re doing, but by the first Egg, I know more about Hold precedents and procedures than they’ve forgotten.”

   Although he had not mentioned that meeting to Sharra, it still rankled-all the more because the climate against Aivas, and himself, was so changeable.

   With suitable dignified reserve, Jaxom seated himself between Lord Groghe of Fort and Asgenar of Lemos. He was not of a temperament to hold a grudge or keep a sulk, so he was amused that the known pro-Ranrel group had ranged themselves together in one quadrant of the table. Predictably, the supporters of Blesserel and Terentel had also seated themselves in blocks, though he wasn’t sure how many supported which older son.

   He nodded pleasantly to those opposite him-Sangel of Boll, Nessel of Crom, Laudey of Igen, Sigomal of Bitra, and Warbret of Ista, the ones reputed to favor Blesserel, the eldest son of Oterel. Begamon of Nerat, Corman of Keroon, and, surprisingly, Toric of Southern were said to prefer Terentel. Toric was probably being perverse, since he didn’t know any of Oterel’s sons well enough to have made an educated choice. It was enough for Toric that his sister’s husband, along with Benden, Nerat, Telgar, and Lemos, was for Ranrel.

   Jaxom took a deep breath, determined to be on his best behavior no matter how sorely he was tempted to “explain” matters to some of the old idiots. He picked up the klah pitcher, glancing courteously at Groghe with an offer to pour, which Groghe declined with a brief shake of his head. The portly Lord Holder was pulling at his pursed lips as he looked about the table, though his glance, Jaxom noticed, seemed again and again to veer back to Toric.

   Skin bronzed and hair bleached almost blond by the -Southern sun, Toric was quite a contrast to the older lords on either side of him. By comparison, Sangel looked more wizened than ever, and Nessel downright desiccated. On Nessel’s other side, Laudey of Igen, his face as tanned as Toric’s, looked the healthiest of the older group.

   “D’you think Toric’ll support Ranrel?” Groghe asked, shielding his mouth as he bent toward Jaxom.

   Jaxom gave a slight shake of his head and replied with equal discretion. “Toric’s been in a perverse state of mind ever since Denol went to the Big Island two Turns back. Then, too, Ranrel used Hamian’s material, and Toric’s annoyed with his brother and furious with the dragonriders for not assisting him in ousting Denol from the Big Island. So, since I’ve made no bones about preferring Ranrel and I’m a dragonrider, Toric is making his protest public.”

   Groghe gave a snort. “He’s making too much of this Denol affair.”

   “You tell him, then, Lord Groghe. As I understand the tradition of Holding, he doesn’t lose the island no matter who’s improving it-it remains incontrovertibly his as part of his Hold grant. No one can usurp his title to it. Especially not someone like Denol.”

   Groghe swiveled around in his chair to gaze with some astonishment at Jaxom. “Are you sure of that? I mean, about the Holding? That no one can supersede his claim?”

   “Of course I am.” Jaxom grinned slyly. “That sort of irrevocable grant is mentioned in the settlers’ Charter. And, remarkably enough, Pern still operates, and enforces, the rules and restrictions of that Charter, even if half the world doesn’t know it. So, once given, a grant can’t be rescinded. It can’t even be ceded out of the Bloodline of the original grantee. When the last of the Bloodline dies, challenge decides the new Holder.”

   Groghe smiled grimly at that reminder of how F’lar and Fax had dueled to make Jaxom the heir to Ruatha Hold.

   “Toric was awarded those specific Southern lands in compensation for Holding during the Oldtimers’ incumbency of Southern Weyr,” Jaxom went on. “If you’ll remember, the Big Island is within the borders of that grant. No act of Denol’s can alter Toric’s title to the Island.”

   “Even if Toric’s not put his own holders there?”

   Jaxom grinned. “When Denol first came South, he agreed to hold for Toric. He can’t disavow that. I’m sure he thought that because others have been granted the right to hold in their own names, he could simply cross the water and claim the Big Island. It doesn’t work that way.” Jaxom was rather pleased to note the respect in Groghe’s eyes as he explained the ramifications. He had always been lucky to have the Fort Holder’s good opinion, but he felt that he had reinforced that today. He valued Groghe’s approval over that of any of the others, so this conversation was doing much to restore his pride. “Meantime, Denol’s been improving the place with every cot and shed he’s built, every crop he’s planted. In fact,” Jaxom said with a slightly wicked grin, “if Toric gave Idarolan the word, Denol’s marketable goods could be collected and sold north, and the profit credited to Toric!”

   “Well, that would solve that problem, surely.”

   “Yes, but Toric’s not listening, and certainly not reading any messages from Landing,” Jaxom said ruefully.

   “Hmmm, yes.” Groghe pensively fingered his full lower lip. “Well, he’ll listen to me, by the first Egg! Best thing about getting old is that you’ve got the authority to make people listen to you.” He nodded sharply, emphasizing his remark.

   Jaxom did not grin, nor did he add that getting older did not always give a person something worth listening to. But Groghe was more open-minded than some of his contemporaries, for which Jaxom was thankful.

   “Heard you went upstairs again yesterday,” Groghe commented, changing the subject. “What’d you do this time?”

   “Closed some doors,” Jaxom said with a diffident shrug. He had also spent a long time, Ruth beside him, looking down at the splendor of Pern as seen from space. Not even Piemur, harper-trained as he was, had been able to describe the scene adequately or convey how deeply it had affected him. Nor had Jaxom, though he had tried to tell Sharra something of the grandeur he had seen and the awe he had felt. He kept the vision solidly in one bedazzled corner of his mind. If only more of the Lord Holders would see, he thought, they would stop their petty bickering.

   “Closed doors? Was that all?” Groghe asked in surprise.

   “There’s a lot to be done to set the Yokohama to rights. It’s dangerous up there,” Jaxom replied. That was a slight exaggeration, but Aivas had steadily repeated the fact that space was a hostile environment and humans must learn the necessary cautions to prevent accidents. “When the safety measures do check out, it would be our pleasure, Ruth’s and mine, to take you up there.”

   Groghe, clearly astonished, hemmed and hawed nervously. “We’ll see, lad, we’ll see,” he said finally.

   Jaxom merely nodded and asked amiably, “Do you think this will take all morning?”

   “Likely to.” Groghe gave a snort, then covered his mouth so that only Jaxom would hear his next comment. “Sigomal needs Blesserel to be confirmed or he’ll never get his money. That young fellow was gambling on succeeding and having the Hold’s mark-coffers at his disposal.”

   Jaxom had already suspected that Oterel’s oldest son was heavily in debt to the Bitran Holder.

   “Does Terentel have any support?” Jaxom found it hard to imagine who would back Oterel’s middle son. Some people seemed to be born losers: Terentel was such a one.

   “Actually,” Groghe said, his eyebrows going up in surprise, “I believe Begamon will. Corman, too, but probably only because he dislikes Blesserel and is feeling testy about the amount of interest in the Landing projects. He’s still not convinced.”

   “No one from Keroon Hold itself is involved, but there’re enough from the minor holds so that no one at Landing’s worried overmuch about his opposition,” Jaxom replied. “Keroon’s more agriculturally oriented anyway.”

   “And Corman’s a stubborn old fool,” Groghe added, eyeing Jaxom critically.

   Jaxom contented himself with a grin. Then Asgenar touched his arm, and he turned to his right.

   “Larad says that we have Deckter of Nabol, who of us all appreciates Ranrel’s harbor repairs, ourselves, you, and Toronas,” the Lemos Holder said. “Which way will Lytol go?”

   Jaxom shrugged. “Where his conscience leads him.”

   “Then he’ll be for Ranrel,” Asgenar said smoothly. “We think Bargen of High Reaches is with us, too.”

   “Really? I’d’ve thought he’d go with the other, ah, older Lord Holders.”

   “He was impressed with Aivas, remember. He’s got an odd twist of mind and wouldn’t hold with Blesserel’s profligacy or Terentel’s apathy.”

   “That gives Ranrel eight votes on the first ballot. Not bad. Maybe it won’t take too long after all.”

   “How did yesterday go for you?”

   “Easy enough,” Jaxom replied diffidently. “Just had to close the cargo-bay doors.”

   “Doors, huh?” Then Asgenar leaned closer and spoke for Jaxom’s ears alone. “What was it like, Jaxom, bringing Sallah Telgar back?”

   Jaxom felt himself go rigid in surprise. He hadn’t thought Asgenar had a penchant for the macabre. “I’ve been sent on some odd errands now and then, Asgenar,” he replied, “but that was the most unusual.”

   “Aivas said she’d’ve been frozen as she died. Could you see her face? What did she look like?”

   “We could see nothing,” Jaxom lied. Even from Larad, Sallah’s descendant, such morbid curiosity would have been unacceptable to him. “The faceplate of the helmet was clouded.”

   Asgenar seemed disappointed. “I just wondered if she looked anything like we do.”

   Jaxom gave a snort. “Of course she did. All the settlers were humans, just like us. What were you expecting her to be?”

   “I don’t know-but I-” Asgenar faltered.

   Jaxom was exceedingly glad that Lytol took that moment to call the meeting to order. In his position as the retired Lord Warder of Ruatha, Lytol had been chosen as the meeting’s arbiter. He was also still entitled to vote, as a mark of respect for his probity and integrity in raising Ruatha’s heir to his majority.

   “We know why we’re here and that the accession to this Hold has been challenged by the legitimate sons of the late Oterel. Proposing themselves, as is their right, are Blesserel, the eldest, Terentel, and Ranrel.”

   “Get on with it, Lytol,” Groghe said, testily flapping his fingers at the man. “Put it to a vote and let’s see where we stand.”

   Lytol regarded Groghe a moment. “There are procedures, and we will adhere to them.”

   “Thought you’d plunged headlong into all the new ways,” Sangel said sarcastically.

  Lytol regarded the Boll Holder with narrowed eyes and expressionless face until Sangel stirred restlessly and glanced at Nessel for support. With a. slight smile, Nessel turned to his right-hand neighbor, Laudey, and murmured something.

   Imperturbably, Lytol continued. “You might be interested to note that the manner in which this Council conducts the business at hand has not changed since it was first instituted twenty-five hundred Turns ago. The Charter was carefully promulgated and every contingency addressed. We will go on as usual.”

   Warbret of Ista looked surprised and leaned to Laudey to snake a comment. Laudey’s disapproving expression did not alter.

   “If there are no further comments,” Lytol said, having scanned the faces around the table, “let us cast the first vote. I do not need to remind anyone at this table that a majority of twelve is required to confirm a candidate. Signify your choice by number: one for Blesserel, two for Terentel, and three for Ranrel.”

   When he resumed his seat, he picked up the ink pen and, shielding the pad with one hand, made a brief inscription. Folding the sheet, he tore it from its glued backing.

   Jaxom noted that everyone at the table was similarly employed and wondered if any of them realized that they were using new products to exercise their traditional franchise.

   The votes were passed around to Lytol, who shuffled them as he received them so that the order in which he finally opened them would not indicate the origin. As he read them, he sorted them in three neat piles, one much thicker than the others. Meticulously he counted each pile before announcing the result.

   “For Blesserel, five votes; for Terentel, three; for Ranrel, seven. No clear majority.”

   Jaxom inhaled a long breath. The voting had gone as he had expected, but even so, seven on the first ballot was a minor triumph for Ranrel. Lytol made a wad of the voting papers and, putting them in the brazier, watched them burn before he again rose to his feet.

   “Who will speak for Blesserel, the eldest?” Lytol asked as required.

   Jaxom slumped down into the heavy chair, glad of the cushions that gave him a small measure of comfort. He hated this tedious part of the proceedings. The older lords would go on and on, given an opportunity. Then he remembered his covert role.

   Ruth, please tell Master Robinton that the vote went seven to Ranrel, five to Blesserel, and three to Terentel, and I’m reasonably sure Toric voted for Terentel. He can’t be serious, but he can be a nuisance, Jaxom told his weyrmate.

   I told the Harper. He expected this outcome.

   We both did, but it’s going to be a long day. Are you comfortable in the sun?

   I am! It is a fine dory.

   For you!

   There will be time for feasting and dancing later. Now you must be Lord Holder.

   Hastily Jaxom turned his inadvertent chuckle into a cough and reached for his cup, displaying an innocent expression when frowns were directed at him. He nodded apologetically at Sangel for interrupting his measured remarks supporting Blesserel’s claim. Then Begamon rose and, with a series of rather disjointed comments, tried to sway votes in favor of Terentel. Privately Jaxom thought anyone else would have done better for Terentel than the Nerat Holder.

   With the second vote, Terentel lost two supporters to Blesserel. The eldest son acquired seven votes, while Ranrel received eight. As before, Lytol burned the papers. Too close, and Jaxom tried to control the nervous jiggling of his leg.

   Groghe signaled that he wished to speak, and Lytol consented.

   “I’m not the oldest of you, but I have held Fort for longer than any of you others, bar Sangel.” Groghe accorded the Boll Holder a bow and a smile. “Tillek was the third Hold to be established-”

   “Word of the Abomination?” Sangel asked slyly.

   “Aivas has now seen, and restored, the Records of every Hold, which can scarcely be called an abominable duty-boring, probably, if your ancestors inscribed as much trivia as mine did-”

   “What’s your point, Groghe?” Laudey asked testily.

   “My point is that James Tillek, who founded this Hold, was a forward-looking man who charted the coastline and started the first Fishercrafthall. Tillek has always been the safest harbor on the western coast, with the biggest fleet and more Masters sailing ‘em; its Lord Holders have always encouraged and assisted our fishermen. Ranrel thought enough of his heritage to take a Master’s knot from the Fishercrafthall-”

   “He did that because Oterel threw him out of Hold,” Sangel retaliated.

   “Order!” Lytol’s voice boomed out with unaccustomed force, and Sangel subsided.

   “Be that as it may,” Lord Groghe continued, “he’s certainly the only one of Oterel’s sons who’s ever done a day’s hard work. I think he deserves to Hold now. Fort’ll support him as Tillek’s Holder in every way it can, so we will!”

   Murmurs of “well said” caused Groghe to flush with pleasure as he seated himself.

   Larad then asked to speak and did so concisely, adding that in his last months Oterel had been too ill to attend to many matters, and that the only one of his sons to take an interest in Hold management had been Ranrel. If Blesserel, however, or Terentel had done anything to take Hold in their father’s name, he would like to hear of it.

   “Clever point,” Jaxom murmured to Asgenar.

   Sigomal asked to be recognized.

   “Blesserel had the onerous task of caring for his ailing father,” he said, “and was scrupulous in all duties to ease Oterel in his last illness. He is a man of integrity...”

   “He paid his gambling debts,” Asgenar whispered to Jaxom, “when he could squeeze the marks out of Oterel’s purse.”

   “...with four fine strong sons and a fine woman to be his Lady Holder...”

   “Ranrel’s wife is not only a Masterweaver but considerably easier to get on with than Lady Esrella,” Asgenar added quietly.

   “Put in your mark’s worth, Asgenar,” Jaxom said.

   “Why don’t you speak?”

   “And ruin Ranrel’s chances altogether?” Jaxom tried to sound as if he didn’t mind.

   Asgenar inclined his head, accepting what Jaxom had implied: that as the youngest of the Lord Holders, his opinion was not much sought by others.

   Meanwhile Sigomal wound up his peroration and sat down, glaring at Jaxom, who turned his head to regard Asgenar as the Lemos lord stood to speak for Ranrel.

   “When a man does not wait for honors to be given him but works with his hands and achieves a mastery in a Hall, he has learned many of the skills needed to make a prudent and resourceful Holder under whose guidance Tillek will prosper. We can ask for no better-qualified a man than Ranrel. On all counts.”

   “I’d heard,” Toric began, standing without Lytol’s permission, “that Ranrel had quarreled with Oterel and was told never to show himself in Tillek Hold again. Can a father’s express wishes be so totally disregarded by this Council?”

   Bargen jumped to his feet, glancing belatedly at Lytol for permission.

   “In my presence, Oterel retracted that statement two seven-days before he expired,” he announced after Lytol nodded to him. “Ranrel is the only one of the legitimate male heirs who has achieved merit on his own cognizance. At the last, Oterel was proud of the boy, which is why Ranrel has my complete support.”

   “But he did not name him successor?” Toric continued, an enigmatic half smile on his face.

   “Do you doubt my word?” Bargen demanded, scowling at the Southern Holder.

   “Doubt doesn’t enter into it, Bargen. The incident is recorded fact.”

   “Which is why the succession has been challenged,” Lytol said. “And the right of any male descendant to challenge the succession, no matter what bad feeling existed between father and son, has been upheld on numerous occasions.”

   Groghe leaned across the table toward Toric and spoke in the blandest possible tone. “I’m sure Lord Toric appreciates that fathers and sons may agree to disagree.”

   Toric stared at the Fort Holder hard enough, Jaxom thought, for his gaze to burn holes through the man. Groghe shrugged. How had Groghe known that Toric had stormed out of his family’s fishhold in Ista? That wasn’t generally known, nor would Sharra have been so disloyal to her brother as to mention it.

   “But it is as Lord Toric has said,” Sigomal said, rubbing his hands together nervously, his expression one of specious regret. “Oterel disavowed Ranrel, and that should be noted. His challenge should be nullified.”

   “Blesserel must owe Sigomal a great deal,” Asgenar murmured to Jaxom, his expression bland.

   “Does anyone support Terentel’s claim?” Lytol asked into the pause. When Begamon did not respond, he added, “Then let us vote between the two remaining candidates: Blesserel and Ranrel.”

   This ballot raised Ranrel’s support to ten, but with Blesserel still polling five, the requisite majority had still not been attained.

   “I am calling a brief adjournment, my Lord Holders, for private discussions,” Lytol said and, rising, moved away from the table.

   The others followed his example.

   “We need two more votes,” Groghe murmured to Jaxom, Asgenar, and Larad as they made their way to the tables where food was available.

   “Toric has to have been the third vote for Terentel. I know Corman and Begamon espouse him,” Larad said. “Is Toric hoping that loon Terentel, will give him guards for that armed assault he wants to make on the Big Island?”

   “Something like that, but I’ve a word for his ear alone,” Groghe said, winking at Jaxom and grinning broadly.

   “C’mon, Asgenar.” Larad hauled the Lemos Holder after him. “We’ll bear you out, Groghe.”

   Jaxom made a plateful of the spice cakes he knew Lytol liked and served his old guardian, all the while surreptitiously watching the three in close conversation with Toric. He looked quickly away when Toric suddenly swiveled in his direction, an indecipherable stare on his broad, tanned face. Jaxom wondered if Groghe had identified the source of his information. Toric then asked Larad a sharp question. Groghe responded, and Larad added a few words, while Asgenar nodded, one corner of his mouth slightly upraised.

   “I think we just obtained one more vote for Ranrel,” Jaxom murmured to Lytol, being careful to keep his face blank.

   Larad and Asgenar stayed talking to Toric while Groghe made his way back to the Ruathans.

   “That seemed to go down with no trouble, Jaxom. Clever of you. Though I don’t think Denol should attempt to have a meeting with Toric when he finds out he can’t make any profit for himself. Who else can we approach?”

   “I’m not approaching anyone, remember? I’m deeply involved with the Abomination,” Jaxom said with a disgusted snort. “I’m not about to ruin Ranrel’s chances by speaking up.”

   “You do yourself a disservice, lad,” Groghe said kindly.

   “I’d rather not do Ranrel one, Lord Groghe.”

   As Groghe turned away, Jaxom took the opportunity to inform Ruth of what was happening, asking him to tell Sharra.

   Master Robinton thought it would go that way, Ruth replied. He asked have you told Toric? He didn’t say what.

   Groghe did, with Larad and Asgenar backing him up, Jaxom replied. Certainly it’s giving Toric something to think about. More’n I could get him to do. There’s a recess on right now. The west coast contingent needs more klah to wake up enough to listen. I’ll keep you all informed.

   Shortly thereafter, Lytol called the Lord Holders to order again and asked if anyone wished to add anything or supply new information to the Council.

   “Another vote, Lytol,” Deckter said. “There is other business to be discussed.”

   Jaxom had noticed Deckter in deep discussion with Warbret and hoped for success in that area. Two votes were all that was needed-unless Toric decided to be more difficult than usual.

   This time everyone appeared to be counting as Lytol sorted, so all knew before the formal announcement that Ranrel had won. Sigomal looked ready to spit nails, glowering at Toric and Warbret, who had abandoned his cause.

   “Ranrel has polled the requisite majority of twelve votes and is duly elected to succeed to his father’s honor as Lord Holder of Tillek.” Lytol gave Jaxom a warning sideways glance that the young Ruathan had no trouble understanding: He was not to make any premature announcement through Ruth.

   “There are two other important reports to discuss in this Council. I now call upon Lord Jaxom of Ruatha Hold to inform us of any progress made toward the end of destroying Thread.” Lytol inclined his head courteously to his former ward and sat down.

   Jaxom stood abruptly, catching the attention of the entire table. The phrases he had rehearsed so often piled out of his mouth and continued even when he heard someone mumbling imprecations about the “Abomination’s corruptions.”

   “Having received extensive training from the Aivas, Journeyman Harper Piemur and myself rode Ruth safely between and landed on the bridge of the Yokohama. We completed the programming of the telescope for use by Aivas from the Landing facility and initiated a damage report on the space vessel. We retrieved the remains of Sallah Telgar, which have since been suitably interred at Telgar Hold.” He bowed deeply to Larad. “The next day Ruth transported me back to the bridge. I then proceeded to the cargo-bay area to close the outer doors, which had not shut due to a malfunction in the remote-closure program. Once the doors closed, I returned to the bridge and from there to Landing. Additional journeys to the Yokohama will be necessitated to improve the basic life-support systems, namely to replant the algae tanks. Additional personnel must become acclimated to free-fall conditions, and there will be several missions composed of different teams, using green dragons, in order to alter the telescope to maximize its use.”

   “And just what does that all mean when translated into normal speech?” Corman demanded.

   “That the Yokohama can be used as a base from which to attack Thread in space, Lord Corman.”

   “So all the dragons are going up to the spaceship and attack Thread at a distance from the planet?” His sarcastic remark must have seemed as silly to himself as it did to the others, for he flushed and looked away from Jaxom.

   “No, that is not the plan, Lord Corman. The plan is to divert Thread from ever falling to the surface.”

   “And how far are you toward that desired end?” Laudey asked, not quite as contemptuous as Corman had been.

   “There are still two Turns, five months, and seven days before that end is achieved, Lord Laudey.”

   “And I suppose that you’re here to ask our permission to draft more journeymen from our halls, more drudges from our holds?”

   “No, sir, we don’t ‘draft’ anyone,” Jaxom replied. He couldn’t help grinning-the problem was turning unsuitable people away from Landing without giving offense.

   “And I suppose you’re unhappy that those lower caverns of yours are pretty much empty of beggars and layabouts?” Groghe asked pointedly.

   “And will they all stay usefully employed two Turns, five months, and however many days from now?” Laudey demanded.

   “Do you, or do you not, wish to be rid of Thread, Lord Laudey? Lord Corman?” Jaxom demanded. “Admittedly, in two hundred and fifty Turns, you won’t have to care whether or not we succeed. But your descendants will!”

   “Are you speaking as a Lord Holder or a dragonrider, Jaxom?” Nessel asked snidely.

   “Both, Lord Nessel!”

   “Then we won’t need dragonriders anymore!” Sigomal roared. “What’re you dragonriders going to do then?”

   Jaxom grinned back. “I think you will find, Lord Sigomal, that you will always want to have dragonriders on Pern.”

   “And how do you arrive at that?” Sigomal demanded.

   “They do a lot more for you, and everyone here, than rid the skies of Thread. Think on it, Lord Sigomal.” Jaxom smiled enigmatically. Let them cudgel their brains over that one. “Lord Toric knows what I mean, I’m sure.”

   Startled, Toric swung his piercing gaze to his sister’s husband and began to frown.

   “I don’t get what you mean, young man,” Sangel said in some agitation.

   “My Lord Sangel, I would have thought that was too obvious to require explanation. May I continue, Lord Lytol?” When he had received the nod, Jaxom went on. “I will also tell you that Harper Piemur and I have seen this lovely world of ours, turning in space, from day toward night. It is the most incredible sight!” He knew his voice trembled slightly, but he was not ashamed. “Once we are certain that the life-support systems-oxygen and heat-are stable, I will take it upon Ruth and myself to bring any Lord Holder who wishes to the bridge of the Yokohama to see for himself what a splendid world we live on and how essential it is for us to rid ourselves of Thread forever.”

   Jaxom looked around, inviting someone to take up his offer. When his first round of the startled faces produced no other responses than nervous throat clearings and foot shiftings, he fixed his audience with a look that dared them to volunteer.

   “I’d like to go,” Larad said quietly, and Asgenar held up his hand, as well.

   “And I,” Lytol added.

   “One doesn’t see too much of the north from the Yokohama’s bridge,” Jaxom admitted, “but Aivas is hoping to repair the damaged port-side viewers. That should make some of the east coast visible from space.” He looked pointedly at Toronas who, after visible hesitation, raised his hand.

   “How much of the Southern Continent is visible?” Toric asked in a hoarse bark.

   “More, if we can repair the stern viewers,” Jaxom replied, delighted that Toric had responded.

   “I don’t see what good’ll come from all this,” Begamon began querulously. “Risking lives on foolish sundreams of destroying Thread. It’s been with us for hundreds of Turns. And I say again, if the ancients knew so much, why didn’t they get rid of the stuff in their time? Huh? Why didn’t they?”

   “Aivas has answered that to my satisfaction,” Lytol said firmly. “And don’t forget that every task we have undertaken since his discovery has benefited everyone on this planet.”

   “How? Tell me, how?” Begamon demanded.

   Lytol held up the pad, the ink pen, and a sheet of the weather reports that Aivas had been producing for the past two Turns to the delight and relief of holders, major and minor. Then he pointed to the ornate clock on the wall, ticking away the minutes of the meeting, and to the new clothing in which Begamon was dressed, made from one of Master Zurg’s latest fine fabrics.

   “I also heard that you’ve new power to irrigate your fields and portable stoves to heat your orchards during frosts,” Lytol replied. “Not to mention the fact that your youngest granddaughter owes her life to Master Oldive’s new surgical techniques.”

   “They’re things we can use, see, touch, Lytol.” Begamon waved his hand over his head. “Not something beyond our reach and our ken.”

   “Then let the things you can use, see, and touch reassure you that there is more to be learned, more to be explored, more to be understood to improve our lives, to insure our lives,” Jaxom said, speaking so earnestly that even the oldest, most hidebound Holders listened with something akin to respect for his sudden authority.

   “Thank you for your report, Lord Jaxom,” Lytol said, smoothly breaking the long pause. “Let us now address the subject of-” At the murmur of disagreement, he held up his hand. “You will all have plenty of time to speak to Lord Jaxom after the business of this Council is over. The second matter to be brought to your attention is a notification from the Mastercraftsmen of Pern.”

   “Not all the Mastercraftsmen,” Corman said, jutting his chin out belligerently.

   Lytol neither glared nor stared, but his look succeeded in making Corman feel abashed at having interrupted so rudely. “The Mastercraftsmen of Pern, with one exception, that of Master Norist of the Glass-smithcraft, notify this Council of their intention to form two new Halls: Printer Hall, to be loosely allied with the Harper Hall but independent and autonomous, with three main crafthalls: the main Hall to be at Landing, with additional installations at Ruatha, which currently harbors no Crafthall, and at Lemos, in conjunction with the paper industry of Masterwoodsmith Bendarek. The second new Hall is to be Technicians Hall, loosely allied with the Smithcrafthall, to deal with problems arising from the new equipment-”

   “I’ll say no to that one immediately,” Sigomal said, jumping to his feet. “That’s catering to the Abomination and-”

   “There will be no vulgar epithets at this table, Lord Sigomal,” Lytol said at his most censorious. “Nor should I have to repeat that the Mastercraftsmen have no need of your permission. You have only to abstain from the purchase of any materials produced by a Crafthall which distresses you. Since it comes to my notice that certain projects of yours have benefited from new gadgetry of which only Aivas could be the source, you would be wiser to refrain from uttering such arrant hypocrisies in the Council.”

   Gaping, Sigomal sank back.

   Jaxom managed not to smile at the Bitran Lord Holder’s discomfiture. One of the men who had tried to attack Aivas had been a Bitran, but that was scarcely proof that the Lord Holder had been connected with the attack. Bitrans hired out to anyone who would pay them enough to make the job worth their while. Still, this was the first time Sigomal had publicly labeled Aivas an abomination.

   “We will be duly informed when the new Mastercraftsmen are chosen and the parameters of their professional spheres decided. Let me further remind the Lord Holders that such additions to the Crafthalls require no ratification by this Council since the Halls have, by long custom, been autonomous. This is a formal notification of intent.”

   “Is that in the original Charter, too, Lytol?” Sangel asked nastily.

   “No,” Lytol replied, not the least bit perturbed. “The Crafthall scheme was originated shortly before the end of the First Pass by Fort, Ruatha, and Benden Holds to preserve skills and educate young men and women in the various urgently needed crafts. Originally,” Lytol added, smiling slightly as he glanced toward Corman, “Ruatha Hold played host to the Masterbeastman and Masterfarmer until the wide plains of Keroon were explored and found more suitable to animal husbandry.”

   Larad rose to address the Council. “It is also worth noting that both Mastersmith Fandarel and Masterharper Sebell are completely within their rights to propose additional, separate Halls without even consulting other Mastercraftsmen. But they have done so and received full support-”

   “It isn’t full if one Mastercraftsman abstains!” Nessel took up the complaint in his peevish whine of a voice.

   “Master Norist did not attend the meeting, though he was duly notified,” Larad said. “Both the Printer and Technicians Halls will supply the special training now required and unavailable elsewhere. We have all benefited by the new machineries, especially clearly printed instruction books and records. For more people to enjoy these benefits, additional craftsmen must be trained in the skills.”

   “Why can’t the printers work under Master Sebell and the repairers under Master Fandarel?” Corman demanded. “Why all this fuss to create new crafthalls?”

   “Master Fandarel is working all the hours of the day already, filling orders for new equipment,” Larad said. “He does not have the time, or the personnel, to oversee a new Craft.”

   “Well, this printing could be handled by your Masterwoodsmith, Asgenar,” Corman replied. “He’s not overworked.”

   Asgenar laughed. “He is, I am, and we still can’t keep up with the demand from every single Hall and Hold for paper in the sizes, qualities, and styles you all seem to feel you must have.” He shook his head. “Master Bendarek has a hall full of apprentices, only two journeymen, and no other master yet. He needs every pair of hands he can employ, but he can’t oversee the printing, as well. Papermaking takes all his time and energy.

   “Master Fandarel wished me to explain that specialist technicians will be required to keep all the new machinery operating at peak efficiency,” Larad continued. “Right now we have machinery only a few people can understand or repair, while others are able to operate but not repair them. Eventually, we’ll have men and women who can do both, but not right now.”

   “Then why don’t you walk before you start running?” Corman demanded with a snort. “In my experience you can’t race a yearling runner or force an immature herdbeast to breed or lactate.”

   Jaxom started to rise but felt Groghe lay a warning hand on his arm. It took a great deal of self-control for Jaxom to obey that tacit command. He fervently wished that he could speak for himself but grimly recognized that the older Lord Holders were not going to accept him as a peer. When he really had helped destroy Thread, would they consider him an equal then? Or would he still be classed as Holder by default?

   “Machines are slightly different, Corman,” Groghe replied, grinning patronizingly at the Keroon Lord Holder. “Once a machine is built, it does what it was designed to do. When it breaks down, you replace the worn part. You can’t do that with livestock.”

   “No, damaged livestock can be slaughtered and eaten. Whaddya do with worn-out machinery? First thing you know we’ll have piles of rusting scrap in every Hold and Hall. And probably the Weyrs, too, since this is all their fault.”

   “Lord Corman!” Trembling with outrage, Jaxom wrenched his arm from Groghe’s grip and sprang to his feet, his fists clenched. “You may not disparage the Weyrs in my presence!”

   He was only barely aware that Lord Groghe had risen beside him and clamped both hands on his left arm, while Asgenar, also on his feet, was restraining him on the other side. Larad was loud in his protest, as were Toronas, Deckter, Warbret, Bargen, and, to Jaxom’s immense surprise, Toric.

   “Lord Corman, you will immediately apologize to this Council for that remark!” Lytol roared.

   With ten Lord Holders on their feet in protest, Corman had no option but to apologize. When he mumbled a phrase, Lytol icily demanded that he speak loud enough to be heard. Then Lytol stared at each of the standing Lord Holders until they sank back into their chairs.

   “If we are to eliminate the menace of Thread, it will be necessary to have the equipment-equipment we are able to manufacture, operate, and service-with which to achieve that elimination. That has already been the ambition of every Weyr since Fort was first established. It is the end to which every Hold and Hall has worked. If to destroy Thread completely causes some reevaluation of ways and means, a displacement of useless or archaic traditions, the price is not too high for the reward of Thread-free skies.” Lytol paused a moment, as if surprised by the vehemence of his own rhetoric. “There will be no mention of this incident when the Council is adjourned.”

   “Now,” he continued briskly, “let us show some unanimity of purpose and encourage the two new Halls. How say you, Lords? Write ‘yea’ or ‘nay.’ “

   Corman sat hunched in on himself, glowering, and his was probably the one blank sheet turned in to Lytol. There were two boldly printed “nays,” but the “yeas” signified the approval that would be passed on to the two Mastercraftsmen involved.

   “Who decides who’re to be Craftmasters and pay for the establishment of these Halls?” Nessel asked.

   “Craftsmasters have not yet been chosen, but there are suitable candidates. Empty buildings at Landing have already been altered for both new Crafts,” Lytol went on, consulting his notes, “and the additional Halls will be built by those seeking to apprentice themselves to the new Crafts. Anyone wishing to transfer to either the Printer Hall or the Technicians Hall will need the permission of their Mastercraftsman and the Master of their present Hall.”

   “What about those working without their Mastercraftsman’s permission?” Sangel asked disparagingly. Everyone knew he meant Morilton.

   “That is an internal Craft matter,” Lytol said, “and will be resolved by the parties involved, not by this Council.”

   “But what if we can’t get glass-”

   “There’s no shortage of glass,” Groghe said, curtly. “We buy what we choose from whom we choose. Simple as that! And there’s many of us who patronize one Hall in preference to another. Always have, always will. It’s only sensible, human nature being what it is.”

   Master Robinton wants to know what’s delaying the announcement, Ruth said to Jaxom.

   Talk. The choice has been made, but Lytol ‘dl peed me if I usurp his prerogative. Just hearing Ruth’s voice helped to soothe Jaxom, who was seething at the subtle, and not so subtle, currents. At least he now knew which Holders to watch: Corman, Nessel, Sangel, and Begamon. Corman was blunt enough to speak his mind, but the others had been nursing their resentment and grievances, and that wasn’t healthy. Did their intransigence stem more from fear of Aivas, or from a stubborn intractable resistance to change?

   “Is there any other business before the Council?” Lytol asked as procedure dictated.

   “I have a question,” Toric said, rising.

   “Yes, Lord Toric?”

   “Who is to be Lord Holder of Landing?”

   For once even Lytol lost his composure and gawked at the Southern Holder.

   Toric gave a faint smile of satisfaction. “Certainly a place as important as Landing cannot be left without proper supervision.” He sounded eminently reasonable, but Jaxom almost guffawed at the shock registered on the faces of the other Holders. The expressions were even more indicative of which Lord Holders felt Landing was important; Jaxom noted those who did not, confirming his guesses; Sangel, Nessel, Sigomal, Corman, Begamon, and Laudey, though the Igen Holder seemed more diffident than antagonistic.

   “You’ve not been keeping up with such minor details in the east,” Jaxom heard himself saying in an amused drawl. “Lord Warder Lytol, Masterharper Robinton, and D’ram, Tiroth’s rider, jointly administer Landing and equably represent the interests of Hold, Hall, and Weyr. The shared authority works well. You have always been welcome at Landing, Lord Toric.”

   “The moment the discovery of the Aivas was made,” Lytol said, firmly taking charge, “a meeting was called on the site. The eight Lord Holders, eight Craftmasters, and seven Weyrleaders unanimously decided that, in view of its historical significance and its current educational status, Landing would remain an uncontested area.

   Corman growled irritably to Nessel, but when Lytol gestured for him to speak up, he morosely subsided.

   “How much of an area?” Toric all but pounced on Lytol with the question.

   Lytol regarded him in subtle rebuke before answering. “The same area that was encompassed by the Landing site on the settlers’ maps, of course.”

   Toric flicked a grimace at Lytol and sat down, his enigmatic stare checking the expressions of the others at the round table. Jaxom, scrutinizing him under cover of a hand on his brow, could not guess what thoughts might be going through the Southerner’s covetous mind. Surely the man knew that further territorial acquisitions would be met with resistance from Hall, Hold, and Weyr-especially the Weyrs. Jaxom began to regret that he had given Toric a solution to the problem of the Big Island: that problem had kept the man from looking eastward for over two full Turns. Jaxom sighed. Sometimes one solved a problem only to create a half-dozen more.

   He was considerably relieved when, with no more ado, Lytol called the Council meeting adjourned. There were protests and reproaches from certain quarters, but Lytol chose to ignore them, as was his right. However much Jaxom would have liked to storm out of the Great Hall, first he had to endure one more ceremony.

   We’re adjourned, he told Ruth.

   Lytol led the procession, Jaxom deftly inserting himself between Larad and Asgenar and ahead of the Fort Holder. He grinned an apology at Groghe. Lytol gave the traditional three pounds of his fist on the door, which was opened immediately by the Tillek Hold head Steward. Privately Jaxom decided that all Stewards shared some arcane instinct that allowed them to sense the ending of a meeting. Lytol nodded, and the men at either side of the great doors wrestled to turn the metal Iockwheel and hauled the halves apart. The bright sunlight was almost as dazzling as the finery on the people crowding the steps. Foremost of those were the three contenders: Blesserel, commanding a position in the exact center and looking far too smug; Terentel, standing a length to his left and wearing an almost imbecilic expression; and Ranrel, standing quietly at the far right. Behind him stood Master Robinton, Sharra, Sebell, Menolly, and the Benden Weydeaders.

   Jaxom lifted his lips in the merest of smiles and saw the relief on their faces even as Lytol began his formal announcement.

   “On the third vote, a majority of twelve was achieved,” he said when the crowd’s babble had died sufficiently for his voice to be audible. “The Council has elected a new Lord Holder. Lord Ranrel, may I be the first to offer my congratulations on your succession to the honor.”

   While jubilant cheers echoed off Tillek’s granite walls, Ranrel looked genuinely stunned and none too sure he believed what he had heard. Blesserel looked murderous, and Terentel merely shrugged and, turning on his heel, pushed his way through the crowd to the nearest wine keg. From the fireheights, the dragons bugled their congratulations, and the air overhead was made hazardous by fire-lizards, zipping and darting and singing their high descants to dragon sound.

   Lord Ranrel was immediately surrounded by well-wishers thumping his back, pumping his arms, and shouting congratulations. Blesserel was surrounded, too, by Sigomal, Sangel, Nessel, and Begamon. Jaxom didn’t bother to check Blesserel’s reactions. Sigomal’s face was frozen with displeasure and a cunning that boded no good for anyone crossing him that day.

   “Was it very bad?” Sharra asked as she embraced Jaxom. “Ruth said you were angry and upset, but he didn’t know why.”

   “I was and I am. Give me your cup,” he said, needing a steadying draught. “Let’s get to Sebell and Master Robinton. There’re things they should hear, as well. Your brother wanted to know who’d be made Lord Holder of Landing.”

   Sharra rolled her eyes in dismay. “He’ll never learn, will he? So what was he told?”

   “The truth,” Jaxom replied. “You’ll remember we asked Breide to be sure Toric knew Aivas was an important discovery.”

   Sharra wrinkled her nose, a mannerism Jaxom still found engaging. “He was so livid over Denol occupying his island that he could think of nothing else.” Then she cast a sharp look at her husband. “You told him about the irrevocable grant?”

   “I didn’t. Groghe did. We needed his vote cast for Ranrel.”

   “He wasn’t voting for Blesserel, was he?” Sharra was aghast.

   Jaxom gave her a flash of a grin. “What happens in Council is not to become public knowledge!”

   “Since when is your wife public?”

   They made their way through the crowd and on to the quiet corner where Robinton and the others were waiting.

   “My harpers, too, report resentment from those Holders, Jaxom,” Sebell said when Jaxom had finished summarizing the proceedings. “I told Master Robinton and Lytol as much earlier today. And I’ve every apprentice with any wit whatever keeping his or her ears open here today.”

   “It’s almost a relief to have the dissenters identified,” Master Robinton said.

   “Is it?” Jaxom asked skeptically. The retelling had depressed him. They had so much to hope for in the future-if only they could get over the pitfalls and trivial machinations of the present.

   Sensing his mood, Sharra leaned against her tall husband, and he allowed himself to be comforted. After all, they had voted Ranrel in despite the opposition. The dissenters were few in number, and all of them old.

10

   MASTER IDAROLAN BECAME legless before anyone else on Lord Ranrel’s celebratory day. He rarely imbibed, but having stood to lose the most if Ranrel was not elected, he had been under great stress and evidently had started drinking at his Hall over breakfast and continued all through the long morning until the result of the convocation was announced. Since the Masterfisher was also extremely popular, his uncharacteristic inebriety was kindly ignored. When he lurched over to the courtyard corner where Jaxom, Sharra, Robinton, Sebell, Menolly, and Tagetarl were seated, his gaiety was a welcome change from their gloomy conversation.

   “There was no way,” Idarolan announced in drunken joviality, “that we fisherfolk would have been happy to keep our Hall here with Blesserel Holding. He’d mortgage us mast, spar, hull, and anchor when we wasn’t looking!” His exuberance was so infectious that Jaxom was not the only one to grin at his antics. “I’d’ve moved me, Hall, Master, journeyman, and apprentice, down to that fine harbor the old maps call Monaco. Yessur, that’s what I’d’ve done had anyone but Ranrel become Holder.”

   “But Ranrel is Lord Holder, so you don’t need to worry now,” Robinton assured the Masterfisher. The Harper gestured for Sebell and Jaxom to find the man a stool before his legs buckled. Menolly and Sharra offered him choice portions to eat in the hope of counteracting the wine.

   “I won’t waste time eating what’ll doubtless return on me all too soon,” Idarolan said, waving aside the plates. Then he belched and apologized. “Don’t mind me, ladies. I’m a relieved man, and I think that’s what I’d better do, if you’ll pardon the expression. Lord Jaxom...” He leaned at a dangerous angle toward the young Holder, his eyes unfocused. “Before I continue my drinking, would you be good enough to indicate the proper direction?”

   Jaxom signaled to Sebell to help, and with both lending Idarolan support, they steered him toward the nearest head, just past the busy kitchens.

   “I was fearful worried, I was, my of friends, that that Blesserel would take the honors. We’d be done for then, we would, we decent hardworking fisherfolk,” Idarolan rambled on. “I couldn’t’ve borne the waiting sober, could I? So I’d had to take a heartener, or three or four,” he added, grinning with a fine appreciation of his present state. “But you know me, lads, I never drink on board. Never. Nor do any of my Masters-them as are on the Crafthall rolls, that is.”

   Jaxom got him into a stall, Sebell deftly adjusting his clothing. Then they both politely looked away. Idarolan began to sing some sort of a sea song, but though his speech was clear for a man well gone in wine, he couldn’t do more than mouth the lyrics in a hoarse bass voice. He took his relief for such a long time that, despite themselves, the two old friends locked eyes in amazement at the older man’s bladder capacity. Jaxom’s grin became a chuckle, and then Sebell started to laugh. Oblivious to them, Idarolan continued his wild garble.

   Then abruptly, the Masterfisher completed his business and sagged between them.

   “Oops! Hang on to him,” Jaxom said urgently, just managing to throw Idarolan’s limp arm across his shoulders as the man started to slide to the paving.

   “He is gone, Jaxom, gone,” Sebell said, grinning broadly and shaking his head. “It might be kinder to just leave him here to sleep it off.”

   “Master Robinton would never forgive us. Slip into the kitchen, Sebell, and grab a pot of klah. We’ll sober him up. Why should he celebrate only half a day? The best part’s still to come.” Closing the lid, he eased Idarolan onto the stool, one hand on the Masterfisher’s chest to keep the flaccid body from falling.

   “Be right back.” Sebell slipped out of the stall, carefully closing the door behind him. Jaxom heard his boot scraping on the stone floor, and then the second door opened and closed.

   Jaxom rearranged Idarolan into what he felt would be a more comfortable, or at least more manageable, posture, but the man was as slippery as a fish on a deck.

   Jaxom adjusted boneless arms and hands on the man’s lap, all the while holding his torso upright on the stool. The knees were together and the toes pointing in. Even in the soft court leather boots, Idarolan had big feet, Jaxom noticed for the first time.

   Just then the outside door slammed inward, and the brush of footsteps on the flagging indicated the arrival of several men; men shod in leather shoes, not workboots, Jaxom decided, pleased with his power of observation. Wishing to spare Idarolan embarrassment, he quickly leaned forward to slip the bolt of the stall door shut.

   “Well, he’s not the only heir. He’s not even the direct heir,” one man was saying.

   “We know that,” a second man said in a gravelly voice. “His dam was only a third cousin, once removed, of the Blood. But the second cousin’s alive, known to be of the Blood, and it’s her son wed support in his place. The lad’d be dead easy to manipulate. Fancies himself as a true Blood.”

   “Which he is,” a lighter voice said.

   “Don’t forget her son has sons who’re in the direct line, even if his mother disqualified him to the succession,” the gravel voice said.

   Jaxom couldn’t figure out who they meant, for there had been no question of Ranrel’s lineage. He had his father’s light eyes and the rugged features of his maternal grandfather. But the tone of their discussion about this facile rearrangement of sons and true Bloods was distinctly unsettling.

   “That doesn’t disqualify him,” the first man said in disgust.

   “He’s weyrbred, not holdbred, and a dragonrider, so he can’t hold.”

   “His sons are too young to be considered, even with a warder. No, this local lad will suit the purpose. He only needs encouragement.”

   “So all we have to do is arrange a convenient accident to bring the Hold into contention again?”

   “That’s all,” the gravel voice said.

   “Yes, but how?” the light voice asked.

   “He flies Thread, doesn’t he? And he goes up to the Dawn Sisters, doesn’t he? That’s dangerous. We just wait for the right moment and...” He had no need to finish his grisly premise.

   Incredulous, Jaxom shook his head. He was aware of a paralytic chill oozing from his guts to his gorge as he realized that the men had to be referring to himself, Lessa, and F’lessan. The “local lad” could only be Pell, for his mother, Barla, was of the direct Ruathan Bloodline.

   “I’m not going off good solid earth, I’m not,” the second man exclaimed. They were moving away, their business completed.

   “You won’t have to,” the first man said with an icy chuckle. “We’ve...” And the closing of the door cut off the rest of his sentence.

   Jaxom realized that he had been holding his breath and expelled it. He was shaking. Lack of oxygen, he told himself, drawing in deep breaths. Idarolan groaned and began to slide out of a grip Jaxom had inadvertently relaxed.

   “C’mon, Sebell. Hurry up!” If only Sebell arrived just at that moment, he would see who had left the head. “Croon, Sebell!”

   I’ll tell his fire-lizard, Ruth said suddenly, his tone anxious. What’s worrying you? I can feel it. Is the fisherman ill?

   No, Ruth, he’s only very drunk. Ask Kimi to tell Sebell to get a move on. Though I think it’s too late now, he added glumly. He had not recognized any of the voices, and none of them had betrayed any particular twang that might have identified which Hold or Hall they came from.

   He heard the door crash open. “Jaxom? What’s wrong?”

   “You didn’t happen to see three men leaving here, did you?” Jaxom called anxiously.

   “What’s wrong? Kimi said it was urgent. Which three men? Everyone and his cousin is packed into the courtyard.”

   Sebell fumbled with the stall door until Jaxom threw the latch over. Anxiously the Masterharper looked down at the comatose Masterfisher and then in astonishment at Jaxom. He had a pitcher in one hand and a mug tucked under his arm.

   “Never mind, too late now,” Jaxom said, feeling defeated.

   He decided not to worry Sebell by reporting a conversation that might well have been just disgruntled speculation. Talking was harmless, he told himself, though the conversation he had overheard had sounded anything but harmless. He sighed in fateful resignation.

   “What happened?”

   Sebell’s harper instincts were very good, Jaxom thought grimly. But then the man was trained to observe, to hear the unsaid.

   Jaxom managed a detached manner. “I suppose one has to expect that not everyone is happy about Ranrel’s Holding.”

   Sebell gave him a shrewd look. “No, but here’s one who is. Hold his head up. Maybe the aroma of klah will revive him. And we’ve got reinforcements coming.”

   “I don’t mind...” Jaxom began. He hated people to think him pretentious and unwilling to cope with an inebriated friend.

   Sebell grinned as he passed the full cup of klah back and forth under Idarolan’s nose. The man began to stir. “Yes, you’re good about such things, Jax, but his people are worried about him, so let them handle it discreetly.”

   Once again the door crashed open and several men entered in haste. “Master Sebell?”

   Sebell swung the stall door open. “In here!”

   The switchover of attendants was quickly made, and just as Sebell and Jaxom swung out of the place they heard the unmistakable sounds that Idarolan had foretold and grinned at each other.

   “My timing has always been excellent,” Sebell said. “Even Master Shonagar agreed. Ali, the music has begun.”

   In the doorway, Jaxom hesitated, seeing very well why Sebell would not have noticed three men emerging from the head. In just the short time that they had been assisting Idarolan, the courtyard had filled up with celebrants, all merry with wine and stuffing themselves on whatever was on the trays the drudges were carrying.

   “When are you and Menolly doing a turn?”

   Sebell winked. “Whenever the good Lord Ranrel asks us to!”

   “A new song?”

   “What else for a Lording!”

   Jaxom took heart from Sebell’s merriment. No use borrowing trouble. It had probably just been talk. But he would keep his eyes open.

   Jaxom was feeling decidedly better by the time he and Sharra reluctantly retired from the dancing square. But duty called: Threadfall was scheduled to begin over water but creep forward over the southern border of Ruatha Hold. Jaxom never missed flying against Thread, no matter how involved he was with Aivas at Landing, and obligingly joined the wings of T’gellan’s Eastern Weyr when Thread fell there. It wasn’t simply a point of honor with Jaxom; both he and Ruth were stimulated by the implicit danger of Fall and reveled in being part of a fighting Weyr.

   “Look, Jaxom,” Sharra said as they readied themselves to leave the Hold. She pointed upward, to the mass of dragon bellies just visible in the glow of the myriad lights that had blossomed at sundown on every wall, hold, cot, and ship. “I’ll bet that’s all of Fort Weyr going home!”

   Jaxom was trying to adjust the riding straps so as not to damage Sharra’s gown and spared only a glance. “You’d be right about that.”

   “Don’t worry about my skirts, Jax, not after all the dust they’ve picked up from the dance square.”

   Jaxom humphed and felt Sharra’s hand ruffling his hair. Then he grinned. He had worried that she had worn herself out with the dancing, but if she was still so playful, she wasn’t too tired. They would get back to Ruatha in good time. Ruth?

   I’ll time it for you for good reason, but that isn’t.

   Oh, and isn’t it? Jaxom swung up on the white dragon with a huge smile on his face. Sharra smiled back as she wrapped both arms tightly about him, trying to work her fingers up under his flying jacket to his bare skin.

   You’ve time enough in hand. And Ruth sprang lightly from the ground, his wings making that crucial downward sweep.

   “It’s so beautiful!” Sharra shouted in Jaxom’s ear. “Ask Ruth to hover. We’ll never see Tillek look so beautiful again.”

   Ruth considerately began to glide in a wide slow circle, head down so that he, too, could enjoy the sight. Jaxom could see that the white dragon’s eyes were sparklingly blue; each of the many facets of his eyes reflected tiny points of the bright lights of Tillek. The Hold, all the cots, and every ship in the harbor were outlined in radiance. There couldn’t be a glowbasket left indoors.

   Jaxom felt Ruth’s sigh through his buttocks and, replacing this with a vision of Ruatha’s unadorned heights, told Ruth to take them there.

   It was not easy to climb out of bed the next morning, even though Sharra had already left it to comfort young Shawan, who had cried fretfully about dawn. Fall was not due until early afternoon, so Jaxom allowed himself a few more moments to savor the first morning cup of klah. Sharra came in with Shawan, once more a cheerful child. Jarrol appeared the moment he heard his father’s voice and bounced across the bed, demanding a tickle, his cheeks still rosy with sleep and his curly hair mashed on one side of his head. The tickle duly administered, Jarrol followed his father as he washed and dressed. By then, breakfast was ready in the main room of their apartment.

   Jaxom sent Jarrol to request Brand’s company. Now was a good time to clear up any urgent Hold business that might have come up in the past seven days of his latest absence from Ruatha. With Sharra and Jarrol planning to accompany him back to Landing the next day, there were other details to be arranged, as well.

   It was while Sharra took the boys off on her own rounds that Jaxom remembered the strange conversation in the Tillek head.

   “Tell me, Brand, what’s young Pell, Barla and Dowell’s son, doing with himself these days?”

   “Learning his Craft from his father, but he’d rather be in Landing.”

   “Like half the Northern youngsters,” Jaxom replied, leaning back in the fine wooden chair that Dowell had carved for him. “Has he any ability as a joiner?”

   “He’s capable enough when he gets into a task.” Brand shrugged carelessly. “Why do you ask?”

   “In the head at Tillek, I heard a rather odd conversation. It could be no more than disgruntled supporters spouting disappointment with the decision, I suppose. Pell would have a good claim to Ruatha, wouldn’t he?”

   Brand sat up, a look of consternation on his face. “What are you talking about, Jaxom?” he scolded, in the tone he had used to scold the erring boy that Jaxom had once been. “There’s not a thing wrong with you, and you’ve two fine sons and probably more to come.” He scowled. “What exactly was said? Have you told Lytol?”

   “No, and you’re not to either. This is between us, Holder to Steward, as well as friend to friend, Brand. I want that understood.”

   “Yes, of course,” Brand hastily assured him, then waggled a finger. “But only if you tell me what you heard.”

   It was a relief to unburden himself, for Jaxom trusted Brand completely. He had hoped that, in the telling, the sentences would lose their burden of dread, but Brand took the implications quite seriously.

   “Could anyone plan an accident for you or Ruth up there?” Brand asked.

   Jaxom gave a snort. “I assure you that from now on, I intend to pick my companions carefully. But I don’t think an accident could be easily contrived.”

   “The two trips you’ve already made were not without dangers.”

   Jaxom shook his head vigorously. “Not with Ruth so close at hand. Not with Aivas in constant communication with me. Piemur, and Farli and Trig, as well, were with us the first time. Sharra’s to go up tomorrow-you knew that? Good. Mirrim and S’len are scheduled for the day after. None of them would conspire against me. Besides which, Ruth wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

   You may be very sure of that!

   Jaxom grinned, and Brand, recognizing the signs of a Ruth-Jaxom exchange, began to relax and even allowed himself a slight smile.

   “Clearly they underestimate both you and Ruth, and now that you’re forewarned...” Brand frowned, his eyes narrowing into slits. “I’ll have a word or two with young Pell. And young he is, proud of his heritage but not so foolish as to wish to become Holder by way of your demise. Besides you and your sons, there’re also those three lads of F’lessan’s. Their claim to Ruatha is direct through Lessa, even if she did defer to you at your birth. I can’t see the older Lord Holders denying their claim because F’lessan’s a dragonrider. The Bloodline would be the important aspect, so I don’t think Pell would have a chance. At least not with the present composition of the Council. Not that the circumstance will ever arrive!” Brand’s conviction did much to assuage the niggling anxiety in Jaxom’s mind.

   Then Brand squared his shoulders the way he always did when he was about to change the topic. “That was quite an inauguration,” he commented. As Chief Steward of Ruatha, he had also attended the festivities at Tillek Hold. “Can’t say as how Tillek Hold ever looked as inviting. We’ll see some grand changes now Ranrel’s Lord Holder. Good for you to have another Holder nearer your age.”

   Jaxom grimaced. “Yes, maybe then I can speak now and again at these Councils.”

   Brand smiled broadly. “I heard that Toric finally got your message.”

   “Hmm, yes, even if it was Groghe who delivered it. Now, what have you for me? I’ve Fall after the noon meal.”

   “More or less minor details to be discussed, Lord Jaxom. Let’s see.” Brand lifted the top sheet from the pile he had brought with him.

   As Jaxom and Ruth circled down to Fort Weyr, Jaxom once again wondered what it had been like for the first dragonriders who had inhabited the old crater. Had they ranged themselves in preparation for their leader’s commands as this century’s dragons did, along the rim from the Star Stones to where Fort Weyr’s bowl had crumbled in an ancient landslide? How many dragonriders had there been before they had needed to expand into Benden Weyr? There was no way of knowing-and Jaxom felt a pang of regret for the lost history, a regret made all the more bittersweet for the history they had been able to reclaim through Aivas. Still, whatever the glory of the past, the sight of the Weyr displayed was as breathtaking as ever. And Fort was right now at full strength, with this Turn’s young riders taking their places in the wings. Green, blue, brown ranked in their wings beyond the bronze Wingseconds, every hide glistening with health in the midday sun.

   Bronze Lioth, carrying Mon, stood statuesquely in front of the Star Stones. Ruth answered Lioth’s bugle of welcome and neatly took his customary position to the right of the Fort Weyrleader. Mon. gave Jaxom a salute and pointed down to the Bowl, where four queenriders were being accoutered with flamethrowers. A blue rider, returning from a preliminary sweep, emerged abruptly into the air, giving the ancient two-armed signal that Thread was imminent. Mon acknowledged that even as the assembled dragons, almost simultaneously, turned their heads to receive firestone from their riders. The queens bellowed their readiness and one by one lifted from the floor of the Bowl and spiraled up to take their positions to the left of Mon and Lioth. The big bronze was carefully masticating the first of the many lumps of firestone that he would chew before the end of the Fall. Jaxom offered Ruth his hunk and listened, awed as ever to the sound of draconic teeth chomping on the phosphine-bearing rock. Knowing as he did now the scientific explanation for the process by which dragons digested the rock in their second stomach and belched the phosphine gas forth in flame did not in the least destroy his reverence for dragonkind.

   Jaxom carefully watched Ruth chew, for now and then every dragon bit his own tongue or cheeks, a minor accident that nevertheless would disqualify him from flying that Fall.

   When Lioth had finished his chewing, he let out another roar, and Mon pumped his arm in the age-old signal to take to the skies. With a powerful upward lunge, Lioth left the Rim, Ruth a breath behind him. The queens with effortless grace were airborne the next second. Making height, Lioth veered to the southeast, and one by one the wings rose into the air, maneuvering into their fighting positions: three on the level above, three just behind Mon and Ruth, and the third carefully on a lower level with the queens’ wing just below them.

   All human eyes were trained on N’ton; all dragons listened for Lioth’s word. As often as Jaxom had seen the flights of dragons go between, as often as he had himself been a part of that transfer, it never ceased to thrill him.

   Between is colder than space, he told Ruth. A breath later they were above Ruatha’s southern border, the expanse of the river a silver snake below them. And to the east was the silver rain they had come to destroy.

   The wings met Thread, breathing fire on the thick strands and watching them curl and twist in flame and drop harmlessly as ash on the ground far below. The upper wings streaked across the sky, and at the lowest level, the queenriders sent flaring gouts of liquid fire after those few Threads that escaped the upper wings.

   Once again, Jaxom and Ruth were part of the ancient defense of Pern, falling into its rhythm, escaping its hazards, flicking in and out of between, weaving across the breadth of Thread, flaming swathes through the deadly rainfall. Together they acted by reflex born of long practice, quite apart from conscious direction of either partner.

   They had done at least eight traverses of the Fall, drifting farther and farther south and east, when a blue dragon just ahead of them screamed and ducked between. Jaxom tensed and waited a heartbeat, scanning for the blue’s return. The blue reentered hundreds of lengths below his point of exit. His left wingsail was dotted with Threadchar.

   He’s badly hit, Ruth told Jaxom as the blue winked out again, no doubt to return to the Weyr and the waiting weyrfolk who would drench his injury in numbweed, ending his pain. One of the new young riders. There’s always one who doesn’t keep his eyes open.

   Jaxom wasn’t sure if Ruth meant the rider or the dragon. Suddenly Ruth veered, the riding straps cutting into Jaxom’s left thigh as the white dragon evaded a thick clump. He did a reverse turn, almost on his tail, and flung himself down at the receding cluster, blowing mightily. Righting himself, he turned his head peremptorily to his rider, and Jaxom obediently offered more firestone. Chomping as he rose to see where his flame would next be useful, Ruth swerved to his right, once again throwing Jaxom’s weight against the riding straps. Abruptly Jaxom felt the front strap stretch, leaving him far too loose in the saddle. Quickly he grabbed a neck ridge with his right hand, clamped his legs tight to the saddle, and hung on tight to the left-hand straps.

   Ruth reacted on the instant, halting midair to allow Jaxom to regain his balance. A dribble of flame escaped his lips as he turned wondering eyes on his rider.

   The strap broke? Ruth’s query was laced with astonishment.

   Jaxom felt along the length of it with gloved fingers. The worn spot was easy to locate, right below the belt clip, the leather stretched but not parted. It had been a very near thing. A little more pressure, and the strap would have snapped, flinging the rider dangerously out of the saddle.

   All too clearly now, Jaxom remembered the ominous conversation he had overheard. Surely they could not have implemented their plan overnight? “An accident,” they had said. What would be less suspicious than a rider’s faulty harness?

   A dragonman maintained his own riding straps, renewing them frequently, testing them every Fall for signs of wear or strain. Jaxom cursed himself. He hadn’t actually looked at his harness that morning, merely lifted it from its peg in Ruth’s weyr, a place open to anyone in Ruatha. And to any casual visitor.

   One thing was colder than between or space. Fear!

   It’s not broken, Ruth. But the leather is badly stretched. Let’s get back to Fort, and I’ll cadge a replacement from the Weyrlingmaster. Tell Lioth why we’re leaving. We won’t be long.

   Jaxom endured a well-deserved scolding from H’nalt, the Weydingmaster, for when they examined the leather strap, they found it to be plainly cold-hardened, brittle enough to stretch and crack. At least the metalwork of the toggles was bright enough to pass old H’nalt’s scrutiny. Relieved that in this instance the problem had been caused by ordinary wear and tear, Jaxom and Ruth rejoined the Weyr and fought till the end of the Fall.

   The first thing Jaxom did when he reached Ruatha was to cut new straps from the thick well-tanned leather made in his own Hold. That evening, with Jarrol’s assistance, he oiled and sewed the straps onto the turnbuckles. He said nothing about the close call to Sharra, who, fortunately, was accustomed to seeing Jaxom spending an evening mending riding straps. Later, when he saw that Ruth was comfortably bedded down in his weyr, Jaxom put the mended harness on the peg, but thereafter he concealed the one he was using, as well as the double harness he and Sharra shared. Forewarned is forearmed, he told himself.

   Waking hours before dawn in Ruatha for the trip to Landing, Jaxom helped Sharra wrap a sleeping Jarrol in his warm flying gear. Shawan was far too young to be exposed to the cold of between and would be tended by his nurse during his mother’s absence. There were enough enticements on this trip to pry Sharra from her maternal duties: she would see firsthand why Jaxom was so preoccupied with this venture; she would have a chance to practice her profession; and she would see her dearest friends; Jancis had agreed to mind Jarrol along with her own Pierjan while Sharra was on the Yokohama. Her two fire-lizards, bronze Meer and brown Talla, were even more excited than she was and were rebuked for their agitation by Ruth as he launched himself from the dark courtyard at Ruatha.

   The weather at Landing was chilly, as the Southern Continent was in its winter season, but the land was never as bleakly brown and bare as Ruatha in winter. Sharra loved Ruatha-it was Jaxom’s home and where her children had been born-but Southern was where she had spent her youth.

   As soon as they entered the Aivas building, Mirrim, who had been chatting with D’ram, ran to greet them.