“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 hide-bound 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 make 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 annoucing 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.