bandaging done. The wounded dragon’s grateful rider rose with her and
stood beside her. Lorana motioned Arith aside. “I’m sorry Tullea, but M’tal
explained that if Minith were injured, she might not mate.”
Tullea’s eyes widened as the words sunk home. “I was doing my duty,” she
said dully. “I’m supposed to take on the duties of the Weyrwoman.”
“When there is only one mature queen,” Salina told her, “those duties do
not include flying against Thread.”
Tullea nodded, but her gaze turned back to Lorana. “You had no right,” she
told her hotly, “to order my queen about.”
“It was M’tal’s orders,” Lorana protested.
“M’tal!” Tullea snapped and started to say more, but a hiss from both Salina
behind her and the dragonrider beside Lorana forestalled her from saying
more. She glared at the rider, who did not flinch, and then at Lorana. “You
will not tell my dragon what to do, girl.”
“I have more patients to attend,” Lorana said, ignoring the comment. “Arith,
it’s all right. Go back to your weyr, dear.”
“This isn’t over,” Tullea growled at Lorana’s back.
“If you’re interested in a Weyrwoman’s duties, Tullea, now is a good time to
start,” Salina said from behind her. “There is numbweed ready and those
who need it.”
Tullea’s hands clenched at her sides and she turned sharply to glare at
Salina, but the old Weyrwoman merely gestured toward the Lower
Caverns.
“I can’t say I think much of your teaching,” a voice growled in Kindan’s ear
later that evening as he sat at one of the dining tables in the Food Cavern.
Startled, Kindan looked up to see K’tan looking down at him, grim-faced.
Kindan gave him a quizzical look.
“You are responsible for teaching dragonriders their manners, are you
not?” K’tan asked.
“Mmm, that might be more a function of the Weyrlingmaster than the
harper,” Kindan returned, his eyes twinkling. “I take it you heard of the
exchange today between Tullea and—”
“Just about everybody,” K’tan returned. A puzzled look crossed his face.
“She’s the only person I’ve ever heard of who got
less
sociable after she
Impressed.”
“That was—what?—three Turns back, now?” Kindan mused.
K’tan nodded. “She’s weyrbred. She was quite the charmer even before
she Impressed. I had an occasion—”
Kindan snorted. “I would have thought you had better taste!”
K’tan glared down at him. “As I said, she was more sociable back then,” he
said.
“There, you see, it’s not my fault,” Kindan said with a smile.
K’tan laughed and sat down beside him. “I know, lad, I was just ribbing you.”
He let out a long, tired sigh. “You did good work today,” he said. “You’ve the
makings of a good healer. Perhaps you learned from Master Zist—”
“Master
harper
Zist, if you please,” Kindan corrected. “We harpers are
rather touchy about rank.”
K’tan snorted. “Very well,
Journeyman
Kindan.” He lowered his voice so
that it would travel only to Kindan’s ears. “Not that I haven’t heard that you’d
been tapped for Master.”
“This doesn’t seem like a good time to leave the Weyr,” Kindan replied.
K’tan clapped him on the shoulder. “Good on you, lad,” he said. “And you’re
right, this isn’t a good time to leave the Weyr.” His voice dropped. “There
might not be a Weyr left on your return.”
Kindan raised an eyebrow. “The losses today weren’t that bad, were they?”
K’tan shook his head. “No, thank goodness. We lost four, though—more
than we would have if it hadn’t been for
her.
”
There was no need for him to explain who he meant.
“Another fifteen severely wounded and twenty-two with minor injuries,” the
Weyr healer went on.
“How’s M’tal taking it?” Kindan asked, careful to keep his voice low.
K’tan gave him a measuring look. “Badly. Worse than he should, I think.”
“What about the other Weyrs—how have they done?” Kindan asked.
K’tan shook his head. “I haven’t heard.”
“I would have thought you would have been in touch with the other healers,”
Kindan remarked.
“I’ve only met G’trial of Ista,” K’tan replied. “But none of the others.”
“And what does G’trial say?”
K’tan’s face grew closed. “His dragon went
between
two days back,” he
said, waving aside Kindan’s attempts at commiseration, “but I’d heard that
there were more sick dragons at Ista than at Benden.”
“Ista has to fight Thread three more times in the next nine days,” Kindan
remarked.
That
much he had learned from the Records.
“It’s going to be tough, then,” K’tan said. “What about us?”
Kindan smiled. “We’re getting a break. We’ve got nineteen days before
Thread falls over Upper Bitra.”
K’tan shook his head. “None of the injured we’ve got will be ready by then.”
L’tor approached them. “K’tan, when you’ve got a moment, M’tal would like
to talk with you.”
K’tan rose. “I’m ready now.”
Kindan rose with him. “I’ve got to get back to the Records.”
“It’d be better if you could find out about the other Weyrs,” K’tan said. The
Weyrs operated autonomously and some, such as D’gan’s Telgar and
D’vin’s High Reaches, were unwilling to discuss their internal affairs with
outsiders.
A thoughtful look crept into Kindan’s eyes. He nodded his head decisively.
“I’ll do that,” he said.
“How?”
“Do you suppose M’tal would be willing to spare K’tan long enough for him
to give me a lift?” Kindan asked L’tor. “I feel a need to practice some
drumming.”
The Weyr drum was up on the watch heights. When he was up here during
the day, Kindan never tired of the view. As it was, in the evening it was cold,
and a steady wind leached all heat from him. Still, if he peered carefully and
held steady enough, Kindan could make out the fire-pits of Bitra Hold to the
west and maybe, or maybe it was his imagination, a faint glow from Benden
Hold to the south. Kindan adjusted his drum to point more toward Bitra.
He took his sticks and pounded out “Attention.” Then he waited. Several
seconds later, and closer than he’d imagined, he heard a drummer respond
with “Proceed.” Kindan grinned. Clearly some minor hold that he hadn’t
noticed before had recently gotten a drummer. Excellent.
He leaned into the beat to rap out his message, hoping that he had phrased
it with sufficient nonchalance that it wouldn’t alarm the relayers but would still
yield its true meaning to Masterharper Zist, the intended recipient.
The message sent, he listened carefully to the drummer repeating it back,
and on to the next drummer in the station. With any luck, sometime in the
next day or so, Masterharper Zist would get the message.
Which meant, Kindan realized with a groan, that there had to be someone
up here listening for the answer for the next several days.
“I’ll get one of the weyrlings,” he said to himself, glad that there was no one
else to notice his chagrin.
L’tor directed K’tan to the Council Room. As they entered, K’tan noticed
that the only other rider present was B’nik, who looked rather
uncomfortable.
Get used to it, lad, K’tan thought. If you want to lead, it’s going to get
harder.
He made a face, annoyed with himself for thinking so sourly of B’nik. He
had known the rider since before he’d Impressed, and the truth was that
B’nik was a steady, careful rider and a good leader. It was only B’nik’s
continued association with Tullea that marred K’tan’s opinion of him.
“Glad you’re here,” M’tal said as he caught sight of them entering the room.
He gestured to a pitcher. “There’s warm
klah
if you need it.”
K’tan silently shook his head and found a seat.
“Did Kindan have any news?” M’tal asked.
K’tan shook his head. “He asked to be dropped up to the watch heights to
drum a message to the Masterharper.”
B’nik frowned. “What for?”
K’tan shrugged. “I don’t know, to be honest,” he said. “We were talking
about the losses of the other Weyrs before L’tor found us, so . . .”
“I’d heard that he had thought of asking the Masterharper if there were any
Records of illness kept at the Harper Hall,” L’tor suggested.
“He could have done both,” M’tal said. He looked at the others seated
around the table. “We could use all the information we can get,” he
admitted. He held up a slate. “I’ve been looking at our strength, trying to get
an estimate of how we’ll fare.
“We started this Pass with over three hundred and seventy fighting
dragons,” he said. “After two Falls, we’re down to two hundred and fifteen.”
“I thought it was more than that,” B’nik said. “Are you counting the coughing
ones?”
M’tal shook his head. “No, I’m counting them as sick,” he said, “and I wish
I’d kept them back from the first Fall. I think we lost most of our dragons
because they were so muddled they got lost
between.
”
“You can’t blame yourself for that, M’tal,” K’tan said heatedly. “Dragons
don’t get sick, no one knew—”
“Well, they’re sick now,” M’tal cut in. “And until they’re better, I’m not letting
sick ones fly with us.”
B’nik frowned. “But the losses—”
M’tal held up a hand. “They were worse when the sick ones flew with us.”
“The last Fall was a short one—you can’t really compare the two,” K’tan
said.
“Even allowing for the length of the Fall,” M’tal corrected, “the losses were
much higher when the sick ones flew.
“The real question is, how many more will get sick and how soon?” M’tal
asked, looking pointedly at K’tan.
K’tan shook his head. “I can’t say. Lorana, Kindan, and I have been going
through the Records and so far haven’t found anything like this. We’ve got
nothing to compare it with: Dragons—and fire-lizards—haven’t gotten sick
before.”
M’tal gave the Weyr healer a long look, then sighed deeply. “In nineteen
days, we fly against Thread over Bitra. I need some idea of how many
dragons will be flying,” he said slowly. He looked at B’nik. “If things go well,
I’d like you to lead that Fall.”
The others in the room startled. M’tal raised a hand to quell their impending
speech. “It’s customary for the Weyrleader to ask other Wingleaders to
lead a Fall,” he said. “It’s good practice, too. No one can ever say when a
Weyrleader might be injured or lost
between.
“And,” he added, “there’s a very good likelihood that Caranth will fly Minith
when she rises. It will make the transition easier all around if you’ve had
some experience leading a Fall beforehand.”
B’nik spluttered for several moments before regaining his speech.
“M’tal—I’m honored,” he said finally.
“Don’t be,” M’tal said firmly. “You’re a good rider. You’re good enough to
know it, too. I’d be asking you to lead a Fall soon enough even if”—he
paused, taking a deep breath—“even if Salina were still Weyrwoman.”
M’tal looked back to K’tan. “That’s why I want to know what you think our
strength will be. It will be hard enough for B’nik to lead a Fall the first time,
even with everything under control. It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to lead one
without giving him some idea of the number of dragons he’ll be leading.”
K’tan nodded in understanding, then closed his eyes in thought. When he
looked up moments later, his face was clouded. “The trouble is, I can’t
really give you a decent guess, M’tal,” he said. “We don’t know how many
dragons were lost
between
because they had the sickness but didn’t tell us
or didn’t realize it themselves.”
Before anyone could comment, he continued, “All the same, if you look at
the first sicknesses and losses, we’ve lost seventy-three dragons—not all
of them to the sickness—but it’s the worst number.” He waited for M’tal to
nod. “That’s seventy-three out of three hundred and eighty-five fighting
dragons, or about one in five who’ve either been lost or gotten sick in the
past three sevendays. So I’d say that you could possibly expect the same
ratio in the next three sevendays.” He raised a cautioning hand. “It might get
worse, it might get better. But, let’s say that another forty-three dragons will
not be able to fly the next Fall.”
M’tal nodded, though his face was pale. He looked at B’nik. “That would
leave you with about one hundred and seventy dragons,” he said. “Can you
do it?”
B’nik was just as pale as the Weyrleader. “Forty-three more dragons,” he
echoed, aghast. He shuddered, then forced himself to answer M’tal. “I’ll do
my best.”
“That’s all anyone can do,” M’tal said with a satisfied nod. He stood up and
turned to leave. “I’ll make the announcement tomorrow morning. After that, I
want to leave the training to you.”
B’nik nodded. “I think I’ll continue with the exercises you had us doing
before the last Fall,” he said after a moment. Then he grinned. “I don’t
suppose your wing would mind slinging ‘Thread,’ would it?”
“I don’t suppose,” M’tal agreed with a grin and a nod. “Now, if you’ll excuse
me, it’s been a long day”—he covered his mouth to stifle a yawn—“and I’m
in need of some rest.”
A voice called him urgently from sleep: “Master Zist, Master Zist!”
Masterharper Zist raised his head wearily from his pillow and blearily looked