"DragonQuest" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)
УHungry?Ф he asked courteously of his dragon, glancing down the Weyr Bowl to the Feeding Grounds. No dragons were dining and the herdbeasts stood in their fenced pasture, legs spraddled, heads level with their bony knees as they drowsed in the sunlight.
Sleepy, said Canth, although he had slept as long and deeply as his rider. The brown dragon proceeded to settle himself on the sun-warmed ledge, sighing as he sank down.
УSlothful wretch,Ф FТnor said, grinning affectionately at his beast.
The sun was full on the other side of the enormous mountain cup that formed the dragonmanТs habitation on the eastern coast of Pern. The cliffside was patterned with the black mouths of the individual dragon weyrs, starred where sun flashed off mica in the rocks. The waters of the WeyrТs spring-fed lake glistened around the two green dragons bathing as their riders lounged on the grass verge. Beyond, in front of the weyrling barracks, young riders formed a semi-circle around the Weyrlingmaster.
FТnorТs grin broadened. He stretched his lean body indolently, remembering his own weary hours in such a semicircle, twenty odd Turns ago. The rote lessons which he had echoed as a weyrling had far more significance to this present group of Dragonriders. In his Turn, the Silver Thread of those teaching songs had not dropped from the Red Star for over four hundred Turns, to sear the flesh of man and beast and devour anything living which grew on Pern. Of all the dragonmen in PernТs lone Weyr, only FТnorТs half-brother, FТlar, bronze MnementhТs rider, had believed that there might be truth in those old legends. Now Thread was an inescapable fact, falling to Pern from the skies with diurnal regularity. Once more, its destruction was a way of life for Dragonriders. The lessons these lads learned would save their skins, their lives and, more important, their dragons.
The weyrlings are promising, Canth remarked as he locked his wings to his back and curled his tail against his hind legs. He settled his great head to his forelegs, the many-faceted eye nearest FТnor gleaming softly on his rider.
Responding to the tacit plea, FТnor scratched the eye ridge until Canth began to hum softly with pleasure.
УLazybones!Ф
When I work, I work, Canth replied. Without my help, how would you know which holdbred lad would make a good dragonrider? And do I not find girls who make good queen riders, too?
FТnor laughed indulgently, but it was true that CanthТs ability to spot likely candidates for fighting dragons and breeding Queens was much vaunted by Benden Weyr dragonmen.
Then FТnor frowned, remembering the odd hostility of the small holders and crafters heТd encountered in Southern BollТs Holds and Crafts. Yes, the people had been hostile until Ч until heТd identified himself as a Benden Weyr dragonrider. HeТd have thought itТd be the other way round. Southern Boll was weyrbound to Fort Weyr. Traditionally Ч and FТnor grinned wryly since the Fort Weyrleaders TТron, was so adamant in upholding all that was traditional, customary . . . and static Ч traditionally, the Weyr which protected a territory had first claim on any possible riders. But the five Oldtime Weyrs rarely sought beyond their own Lower Caverns for candidates. Of course, thought FТnor, the Oldtime queens didnТt produce large clutches like the modern queens, nor many golden queen eggs. Come to think on it, only three queens had been Hatched in the Oldtime Weyrs in the seven Turns since Lessa brought them forward.
Well, let the Oldtimers stick to their ways if that made them feel superior. But FТnor agreed with FТlar. It was only common sense to give your dragonets as wide a choice as possible. Though the women in the Lower Caverns of Benden Weyr were certainly agreeable, there simply werenТt enough weyr-born lads to match up the quantity of dragons hatched.
Now, if one of the other Weyrs, maybe GТnarish of Igen Weyr or RТmart of Telgar Weyr, would throw open their junior queensТ mating flights, the Oldtimers might notice an improvement in size of clutch and the dragons that hatched. A man was a fool to breed only to his own Bloodlines all the time.
The afternoon breeze shifted and brought with it the pungent fumes of numbweed a-boil. FТnor groaned. HeТd forgotten that the women were making numbweed for salve that was the universal remedy for the burn of Thread and other painful afflictions. That had been one main reason for going on Search yesterday. The odor of numbweed was pervasive. YesterdayТs breakfast had tasted medicinal instead of cereal. Since the preparation of numbweed salve was a tedious as well as smelly process, most dragonmen made themselves scarce during its manufacture. FТnor glanced across the Weyr Bowl to the queenТs weyr. Ramoth, of course, was in the Hatching Ground, hovering over her latest clutch of eggs, but bronze Mnementh was absent from his accustomed perch on the ledge. FТlar and he were off somewhere, no doubt escaping the smell of numbweed as well as LessaТs uncertain temper. She conscientiously took part in even the most onerous duties of Weyrwoman, but that didnТt mean she had to like them.
Numbweed stink notwithstanding, FТnor was hungry. He hadnТt eaten since late afternoon yesterday, and, since there was a good six hoursТ time difference between Southern Boll on the western coast and Benden Weyr in the east, heТd missed the dinner hour at Benden Weyr completely.
With a parting scratch, FТnor told Canth that heТd get some food, and started down the stone ramp from his ledge. One of the privileges of being Wing-second was choice of quarters. Since Ramoth as senior queen would permit only two junior queens in Benden Weyr, there were two unoccupied Weyr-woman quarters. FТnor had appropriated one and did not need to disturb Canth when he wished to descend to a lower level.
As he approached the entrance of the Lower Caverns, the aroma of boiling numbweed made his eyes smart. HeТd grab some klah, bread and fruit and go listen to the Weyrlingmaster. They were upwind. As Wing-second, FТnor liked to take every opportunity to measure up the new riders, particularly those who were not weyrbred. Life in a Weyr required certain adjustments for the craft and holdbred. The freedom and privileges sometimes went to a boyТs head, particularly after he was able to take his dragon between Ч anywhere on Pern Ч in the space it takes to count to three. Again, FТnor agreed with FТlarТs preference in presenting older lads at Impression though the Oldtimers deplored that practice at Benden Weyr, too. But, by the Shell, a lad in his late teens recognized the responsibility of his position (even if he were holdbred) as a dragonrider. He was more emotionally mature and, while there was no lessening of the impact of Impression with his dragon, he could absorb and understand the implications of a lifelong link, of an in-the-soul contact, the total empathy between himself and his dragon. An older boy didnТt get carried away. He knew enough to compensate until his dragonetТs instinctive sensibility unfolded. A baby dragon had precious little sense and, if some silly weyrling let his beast eat too much, the whole Weyr suffered through its torment. Even an older beast lived for the here and now, with little thought for the future and not all that much recollection Ч except on the instinctive level Ч for the past. That was just as well, FТnor thought. For dragons bore the brunt of Thread-score. Perhaps if their memories were more acute or associative, theyТd refuse to fight.
FТnor took a deep breath and, blinking furiously against the fumes, entered the huge kitchen Cavern. It was seething with activity. Half the female population of the Weyr must be involved in this operation, FТnor thought, for great cauldrons monopolized all the large hearths set in the outside wall of the Cavern. Women were seated at the broad tables, washing and cutting the roots from which the salve was extracted. Some were ladling the boiling product into great earthenware pots. Those who stirred the concoction with long-handled paddles wore masks over nose and mouth and bent frequently to blot eyes watering from the acrid fumes. Older children were fetching and carrying, fuelrock from the store caves for the fires, pots to the cooling caves. Everyone was busy.
Fortunately the nighthearth, nearest the entrance, was operating for normal use, the huge klah pot and stew kettle swinging from their hooks, keeping warm over the coals. Just as FТnor had filled his cup, he heard his name called. Glancing around, he saw his blood mother, Manora, beckon to him. Her usually serene face wore a look of puzzled concern.
Obediently FТnor crossed to the hearth where she, Lessa, and another young woman who looked familiar though FТnor couldnТt place her, were examining a small kettle.
УMy duty to you, Lessa, Manora Ч Ф and he paused, groping for the third name.
УYou ought to remember Brekke, FТnor,Ф Lessa said, raising her eyebrows at his lapse.
УHow can you expect anyone to see in a place dense with fumes?Ф FТnor demanded, making much of blotting his eyes on his sleeve. УI havenТt seen much of you, Brekke, since the day Canth and I brought you from your crafthold to Impress young Wirenth.Ф
УFТnor, youТre as bad as FТlar,Ф Lessa exclaimed, somewhat testily. УYou never forget a dragonТs name, but his riderТs?Ф
The girl looked startled but managed a hesitant smile, then pointedly looked towards Manora, trying to turn attention from herself. She was a shade too thin for FТnorТs tastes, not much taller than Lessa whose diminutive size in no way lessened the authority and respect she commanded. There was, however, a sweetness about BrekkeТs solemn face, unexpectedly framed with dark curly hair, that FТnor did find appealing. And he liked her self-effacing modesty. He was wondering how she got along with Kylara, the tempestuous and irresponsible senior Weyrwoman at Southern Weyr, when Lessa tapped the empty pot before her.
УLook at this, FТnor. The lining has cracked and the entire kettle of numbweed salve is discolored.Ф
FТnor whistled appreciatively.
УWould you know what it is the Smith uses to coat the metal?Ф Manora asked. УI wouldnТt dare use tainted salve and yet I hate to discard so much if thereТs no reason.Ф
FТnor tipped the pot to the light. The dull tan lining was seamed by fine cracks along one side.
УSee what it does to the salve?Ф and Lessa thrust a small bowl at him,
The anesthetic ointment, normally a creamy, pale yellow, had turned a reddish tan. Rather a threatening color, FТnor thought. He smelled it, dipped his finger in and felt the skin immediately deaden.
УIt works,Ф he said with a shrug.
УYes, but what would happen to an open Thread score with that foreign substance cooked into the salve?Ф asked Manora.
УGood point. What does FТlar say?Ф
УOh, him.Ф Lessa screwed her fine delicate features into a grimace. УHeТs off to Lemos Hold to see how that woodcraftsman of Lord AsgenarТs is doing with the wood pulp leaves.Ф
FТnor grinned. УNever around when you want him, huh, Lessa?Ф
She opened her mouth for a stinging reply, her gray eyes snapping, and then realized that FТnor was teasing.
УYouТre as bad as he is,Ф she said, grinning up at the tall Wing-second who resembled her Weyrmate so closely. Yet the two men, though the stamp of their mutual sire was apparent in the thick shocks of black hair, the strong features, the lean rangy bodies (FТnor had a squarer, broader frame with not enough flesh on his bones so that he appeared unfinished), the two men were different in temperament and personality. FТnor was less introspective and more easygoing than his half brother. FТlar, the elder by three Turns. The Weyrwoman sometimes found herself treating FТnor as if he were an extension of his half brother and, perhaps for this reason, could joke and tease with him. She was not on easy terms with many people.
FТnor returned her smile and gave her a mocking little bow for the compliment.
УWell. IТve no objections to running your errand to the Mastersmithhall. IТm supposed to be Searching and I can Search in Telgar Hold as well as anywhere else. RТmartТs nowhere near as sticky as some of the other Oldtime Weyr-leaders.Ф He took the pot off the hook, peering into it once more, then glanced around the busy room, shaking his head. УIТll take your pot to Fandarel but it looks to me as though youТve already got enough numbweed to coat every dragon in all six Ч excuse me Ч seven Weyrs.Ф He grinned at Brekke for the girl seemed curiously ill at ease. Lessa could be snap-tempered when she was preoccupied and Ramoth was fussing over her latest clutch like a novice Ч which would tend to make Lessa more irritable. Strange for a junior Weyrwoman from Southern Weyr to be involved in any brewing at Benden.
УA Weyr canТt have too much numbweed,Ф Manora said briskly.
УThat isnТt the only pot thatТs showing cracks, either,Ф Lessa cut in, testily. УAnd if weТve got to gather more numbweed to make up what weТve lost . . .Ф
УThereТs the second crop at the Southern Weyr,Ф Brekke suggested, then looked flustered for speaking up.
But the look Lessa turned on Brekke was grateful. УIТve no intention of shorting you, Brekke, when Southern Weyr does the nursing of every fool who canТt dodge Thread.Ф
УIТll take the pot. IТll take the pot,Ф FТnor cried with humorous assurance. УBut first, IТve got to have more in me than a cup of klahФ
Lessa blinked at him, her glance going to the entrance and the late afternoon sun slanting in on the floor.
УItТs only just past noon in Telgar Hold,Ф he said, patiently. УYesterday I was all day Searching at Southern Boll so IТm hours behind myself.Ф He stifled a yawn.
УIТd forgotten. Any luck?Ф
| © 2025 Библиотека RealLib.org (support [a t] reallib.org) |