All the Weyrs of Pern (27 page)

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 lock-wheel 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 Weyrleaders.

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

“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

M
ASTER
I
DAROLAN 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 ol’ 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 we’d 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. “
C’mon
, 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. Ah, 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 sevendays 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?”