The Skies of Pern (6 page)

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly, glancing up. “T’gellan sent out a full wing.” She looked away again.

“No trace at all?” he asked gently.

“None. Everyone was very kind. I was apprenticed to Master Wansor—I read for him. He liked my voice.”

“I don’t wonder at that,” F’lessan said. He had already noticed how expressive her voice could be.

“That’s how I came to be at the Monaco Bay Hatching and Impressed Zaranth.”

“Reading to Master Wansor?”

“No,” she said in an amused tone. “He liked to have someone telling him what was going on. So we were seated to one side of the Hatching Ground.”

F’lessan chuckled. “Yes, I remember. Master Wansor had to push you at Zaranth. You didn’t know what to do: respond to the hatchling or tell Master Wansor what was happening.”

The smile that lit her face and her green eyes was evocative of the sense of incredulity and wonder that overwhelmed anyone lucky enough to Impress a dragon. His smile answered hers and both were silent for a long moment in fond reminiscences of their Impressions.

“You’re still keeping up with your studies?” F’lessan asked, indicating the old tome she’d been studying.

“Why not?” she asked, with a wry grin. “It’s as good an occupation for a dragonrider as any.”

After a pause, she asked, “Have you tried the Charter?”

He blinked. “The Charter?”

She waved toward the special case where the original Charter of the Pern Colony was housed.

“Kimmer was an original colonist, wasn’t he?” she said. “He’d’ve had to sign his name somewhere, even as a contractor, wouldn’t he?”

F’lessan got to his feet so fast he had to catch the chair from falling. His movement startled her.

“Now, why didn’t I think of that?” he exclaimed with exaggerated self-castigation. He strode to the airtight case that held what was considered the most valuable, and venerable, document on the planet.

Fort Hold had ceremoniously returned the Charter to Landing. Indeed, no one had known what had been stored in the thick container that had been gathering dust with other Hold treasures
until Aivas had told them what to look for. Aivas was certainly the only intelligence that had known the combination of the digital lock. Inside its airtight case, the Charter had been revealed to be pristine. Upon close examination, Masterwoodsmith Benelek remarked that the plastic-coated pages could not have been damaged by anything short of being chopped into little pieces by very sharp blades. Now the Charter was enshrined behind some of Master Morilton’s clear thick panes, mounted on a mechanism—also an Aivas design—that turned its pages to the one required.

“The capital letters would be similar, wouldn’t they? Printed or written,” F’lessan muttered. “Your research skills are better honed than mine.” He shot her an appreciative grin. “Let’s get to the end … Ah, contractor, contractor,” he said under his breath as the pages shifted in sequence to the final ones containing signatures, many of them mere illegible scrawls. There were three sections: the first, of the Charterers; the second, longer, included the names of all the Contractors; while the third listed all minor children over five years of age who had come with their parents on this momentous venture.

“There,” Tai said, her right index finger tapping the glass so that he could find the bold handwritten
Stev Kimmer, Eng
.

With careful fingers, F’lessan smoothed his note on the glass, just above the bold, and legible, name.

“Couldn’t be anyone else,” Tai said. She ran her finger down the listings. “No other S.K.”

“You’re right, you’re right. He’s here. It’s him.” With his characteristic exuberance, F’lessan grabbed her by the waist and spun her about, forgetting the reserve she had shown any of his overtures of friendliness. “Oops!” He dropped her, staring in mute apology.

She staggered a little off balance and instantly he steadied her.

“Thank you very much for finding it so quickly. I was looking so hard I couldn’t see,” he said, giving her a quick bow.

She had a very nice smile, he thought, as the corners of her wide mouth curved up, showing her teeth, white and even, accented by a tanned complexion that was as much heredity as exposure to southern sun.

“Why was it so important to you?”

“Do you really want to know?” he asked with the ingenuousness that could still surprise people.

Her smile deepened, causing two dimples to appear in her cheeks. He didn’t know any girls with dimples.

“If a dragonrider finds it more important than”—she tilted her head toward the noise of very loud dance music—“Turnover eating and dancing, it must be important.”

He chuckled. “
You’re
a dragonrider and you’re here.”

“But you’re F’lessan and a bronze rider.”

“And you are Tai and a green rider,” he countered.

The dimples disappeared and she looked away from him.

You are a bronze rider and you are F’lessan and she’s shy
, Golanth said.
Zaranth says she wants to make something of herself for After. She never wants to be beholden to anyone else ever
.

Like all dragonriders
, F’lessan said with considerable irony.

Not even to other dragonriders
, Golanth added, slightly offended by Tai’s utter independence.

“We were getting along quite well when you found Stev Kimmer’s signature for me,” F’lessan said gently.

Be very careful
, his dragon said softly.

“I think the numbweed is dry enough now,” he added. “I know I’m hungry and thirsty and, while I would prefer to go back to Honshu, I have to put in an appearance out there.” He nodded in the direction of the music.

“Is that where Stev Kimmer went? To Honshu? Why would that be his destination?”

“Ah,” and F’lessan held up a finger, “that’s part of the puzzle I’ve got. I did find his initials on surfaces in the Hold, and yet the records Ita Fusaiyuki kept until a few months after Kenjo’s death make no mention of him.”

“She died there?”

F’lessan shook his head as she absently followed his slow drift out of the Archives room.

“I don’t know that. Aivas has records of messages sent to her, urging her to come first to Landing to cross north. So she was still alive during the Second Crossing. Or someone at Honshu was.”

“I promised I’d lock up,” Tai said, pausing in the entrance hall to enable the alarm.

F’lessan nodded approval. All archival material, whether here or at a Hall or Hold, was provided with safeguards against natural—or unnatural—accidents.

O
utside, both stopped on the wide top step. The quick transition from twilight to full tropical night had occurred as they talked. Below them, spread out in festive splendor, were the lights, sights, and sounds of Turnover. More enticing were the luscious aromas of the fine feast awaiting the revelers. As one they inhaled the odors and then, again simultaneously, turned slightly to see the round blue lanterns of massed dragon eyes on the heights, the blue denoting the dragons’ own enjoyment of the happy scene. The music came to a raucous finale and the sound of laughter and excited chatter drifted back to them.

“The harpers are setting down their instruments,” F’lessan said, pointing to the platform. He rubbed his hands together. “That means it’s time to eat and I’m very hungry.”

He looked around at her: she was exactly the right height for him. But would she dance if he asked her?

“I am, too,” she admitted and tilted her chin just slightly.

He made a bow and swept his hand gracefully, indicating they should proceed.

“You’ve got long legs. I’ll race you to the roast pits.” And he took off, hearing her laugh before he heard her boots scrabbling in the beach pebbles that lined the path.

Tai, who knew rather more about Benden Wingleader F’lessan than he was aware, surprised herself by responding to the challenge. Despite all the tales she had heard from Mirrim about the bronze rider—including dire warnings about his fecklessness—he had acted considerately and courteously toward her in the library. She’d been surprised that he appeared to know his way around the shelves. He had certainly prevented her from getting in trouble with Master Esselin, who had his own ideas about what dragonriders should study. Especially green female riders. After Tai’s first distressing encounter with the pompous Archivist, Mirrim had comforted her with a tale of how nasty Esselin
had once been to her, in the early days of the discoveries at Landing, before Aivas was discovered, and how MasterHarper Robinton himself had acted on Mirrim’s behalf. The fussbudget was the main reason Tai tried to pick unusual hours at the library: times when she wouldn’t have to deal with the persnickety old man.

Fortunately the path from that wing of the Archives was wide all the way down to the open area where the Turnover festivities were being held. Now that the sun was down, lighting had come up so they didn’t have to watch where they put their feet. F’lessan was ahead of her, as he passed the Aivas section, but he slowed and looked to his right with a respectful bend of his head. Tai knew that he’d been very much involved with Aivas, almost from the day of discovery, so his reverence was understandable. She slowed, too, as much from surprise as to nod her own respects. Then he lengthened his stride and so did she, trying to catch up. She wasn’t a Runner, but she was no drag foot either and really wanted to catch up. Riders kept fit—it was part of their dedication to their dragons—and running was good exercise.

She ran into the dragonrider when he abruptly stopped, rounding a curve and trying to keep from knocking over a couple who were so involved in each other that they were oblivious to their surroundings. His halt and turn were close to acrobatic as he kept her from tripping over him.

Contrary to what Mirrim had led Tai to expect in F’lessan’s behavior, he held her no longer than was necessary for her to regain her balance. His eyes were merry with amusement as he jerked his head at the still unmindful pair, lost in their private world.

“Let us not be an obstacle in the path of true love,” he murmured to her and gestured that they circle around the lovers. He was breathing only a little hard from the run, though no more than she was.

They made the detour and then, the race forgotten, loped easily side by side toward the roasting pits. Diners were just beginning to assemble.

There was always an evening breeze at Landing, and that dried the sweat on her brow as they stood in line. They arrived just before the crowd streaming from the square. By the time they were
served roast beast and quarters of grilled avians, and took their choice from steaming bowls of tubers and vegetables, the line at the serving tables had tripled its length.

“Where shall we sit?” F’lessan asked her, looking around.

“Surely you’re joining your friends?”

“Ha! No one in particular. I wanted free time at the Archives. Look, over to our right, there at the edge. A quiet table.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Geger!” A wineman glanced their way. “Serve us, will you?” F’lessan pointed and, putting his free hand on her elbow, steered her in that direction.

The wineman converged on the table just as they arrived.

“White? Red?” F’lessan asked her before turning to the wineman. “D’you have any Benden there, Geger?”

“Well, seeing as it’s you, F’lessan, yes, I can get one.” The wineman put his fingers to his lips and his shrill whistle pierced the happy noise of the crowd. Across the square, where skins of wine were hung in display, another wineman looked toward them. Geger flagged his arms in a private code and the man waved in reply. “That’ll be three marks, bronze rider.”

“What?” F’lessan demanded.

“I’ll pay my share,” Tai said quickly, reaching for her belt pouch.

“That’s robbery, Geger. I could have bought from the source for one and a half.”

Tai was amused by the outrage in his voice.

“Then you shoulda done before you got here, F’lessan. And you know three marks isn’t high for cold white Benden.” The last three words were delivered in a slow cajoling drawl.

“But three?”

“I’ll give—” Tai began, but F’lessan flapped his hand sharply at her.

“Geger and I are old friends,” he said, his eyes sparkling. There was a firm edge to his voice. “Aren’t we, old friend?”

“Even for old friends, three marks for a ’30 vintage cold white Benden is a good price at Turnover.” Geger was not to be moved by any consideration of friendship.

“Benden marks,” F’lessan said, sticking his jaw out.

“Benden marks are, to be sure, the best. Almost as good as Harper Hall.”

F’lessan passed over the three marks just as the other wineman arrived with the skin, a large one.

“Good Turnover,” Geger said, tipping a salute to F’lessan and a wink at Tai.

“Well,” F’lessan commented, feeling the skin, “it’s properly cold.” He unplugged the small end, gesturing for Tai to supply glasses from those on the table. He filled both deftly, restored the plug, and laid the skin under the table. “Safe skies!” he said in the traditional toast. Quickly she touched her glass to his.

“I think it
is
a ’30,” he added after a judicious sip. He grinned broadly. “You know, three marks isn’t that bad for a vintage Benden white.”

His remark caught her taking her first sip and she nearly choked on it. Three marks would have been out of her reach even at a Turnover celebration when everyone tended to spend freely. She hadn’t brought much with her; once she’d completed the declinations that Erragon wanted, she hadn’t expected to do more than get a quick meal here—and maybe listen to the Harpers awhile—before returning with Zaranth to her weyr down by Monaco Bay. She didn’t have a great many marks in any event, though like many other green riders she could be hired to deliver small packages and letters almost anywhere in Southern, when she wasn’t involved in Weyr duties or researching for Master Wansor at Cove Hold.

“Thank you, bronze rider,” she said.

“I’m F’lessan, Tai,” he replied with gentle chiding and a smile lurking in his eyes.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Let’s eat,” he suggested, taking his belt knife from its sheath. “I think from the smell of it the Landing cooks have used their special sauce. What more can one ask for on a Turnover night?”