The Skies of Pern, Page 5

  “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?”

  Tai wouldn’t have asked for this much, she mused as she picked up a clean fork and started on the roast tubers, her favorite.

  The wine was the best she’d ever tasted and so was the food.

  “How’s the hand?” F’lessan asked after they’d eaten in hungry silence for a few minutes.

  “My hand?” Tai looked down at it. “Oh, truly nothing now. My thanks again. And I usually do keep numbweed handy. I just didn’t … today.” In truth she had a big jar among the supplies in her weyr, but she did not have one small enough to fit in her belt pouch.

  “How’d you do it?”

  “Oh, probably when I was scrubbing Zaranth this afternoon. She hunted today and needed a good wash.” Hunting and bathing Zaranth had taken longer than Tai had planned. K
nowing that the Archives were more likely to be unoccupied on Turnover days, she’d been anxious to get there—and not careful enough to avoid barnacle-covered rocks when rinsing the stiff brush she used on Zaranth’s hide.

  “That can happen,” he said with rueful agreement. “Are you weyred along the coast or inland?”

  Tai tried not to freeze at the question: bronze riders with an eye to mating with Zaranth the next time she was “ripe” always wanted to know where she could be found. Zaranth wasn’t even close to her cycle. “Coast,” she replied quickly. Almost too quickly. “Do you spend a lot of time at Honshu?”

  “Coast, huh? See much of the Monaco dolphins?”

  She made herself relax. She was being overly suspicious. “Yes, I do.” She smiled. Thinking of her dolphin friends always made her smile. It seemed to have a similar effect on F’lessan, who grinned back at her. He had such a merry smile. Just as Mirrim said he had.

  “Natua has a new calf. She showed him off to Zaranth and me,” she said, quite willing to talk about dolphins.

  “She did?” F’lessan was really interested. It showed in the way his eyes sparkled and his whole face lit up. “Golanth and I must take the time to admire him.”

  “She’ll show him off to anyone, she’s so proud.”

  “I’m better acquainted with the Cove Hold and Readis’s pods, you see,” he confided in her.

  “I know,” she replied.

  “Quite likely,” he said, shooting her a teasing glance. “Dolphins like nothing better than to gossip. They can spread news faster than Runners. We have too many animals on this planet who can talk back to us humans.”

  She gave him a startled look and then let herself chuckle. “I suppose we should be grateful that fire-lizards can’t talk.”

  “A large mercy,” he agreed. “It’s bad enough they sing!”

  “But they add such beautiful descants.”

  “I suppose so,” he replied amiably.

  She knew that Lessa, his mother, had a prejudice against fire-lizards. Mirrim had said it was because no one had known how to control the creatures when they were first brought to Benden. Did F’lessan share her bias? She didn’t know what to say to change the subject. He spared her by speaking first.

  “What has you so interested in Rukbat system charts?”

  “Ah!” She was grateful for the change in topic. “Well, I’m close enough, being at Monaco Bay, and I was an apprentice …” She floundered a moment.

  “So you said …”

  “So I’m often asked to check out figures on the original charts, which are much too valuable to be anywhere else.”

  “Good Master Esselin.” F’lessan’s tone was facetious.

  She flushed. “He doesn’t really approve of me, even if Master Stinar entrusts me to take Yoko updates to Cove Hold, because I’m only a green rider.”

  “There’s no such thing as ‘only a green rider,’ Tai. A wing never has enough green riders,” he replied so staunchly that she was startled enough to catch his eyes. “That’s the Wingleader in me talking. Besides which, Master Esselin is a pompous old hairsplitter! Ignore him.”

  “I can’t. And weren’t you hoping to avoid him, too?”

  “Whenever I can. He,” he told her, dropping his tone to a whisper as he leaned across the table to her, “doesn’t approve of me being in Honshu.”

  “But you found it,” she said, surprised.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding with an air of mischievous satisfaction. “And I take great care of its treasures.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “So you have heard some good of me?”

  She knew he was teasing her; she knew she was often too solemn. Even Mirrim said she shouldn’t be quite so conscientious, but that was just how she was. She just didn’t know how to respond to levity. As if he hadn’t noticed her uncertainty, he reached for the skin.

  “More wine,” he said briskly.

  She hadn’t realized her glass was empty and obediently held it out.

  “Does Erragon let you stand any night watches with him at Cove Hold?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m a good timekeeper.” Conscientious was what Erragon called her, just like Mirrim.

  “Time is a critical factor in astronomy,” he replied.

  She was surprised that he knew that.

  “Did you study much astronomy?”

  “Not as much as I should have, but I’ll catch up.” He wasn’t teasing now. He was quite serious. “And to good advantage, since we must look beyond our traditional duties. I like people who think ahead.”

  “You certainly are, with Honshu.”

  His expression altered again, as if he, too, had considered his future—which put another dimension to the outwardly lighthearted dragonrider. He grinned, impulsively covering her hand with a reassuring pressure.

  “Yes, I’ve plans for Honshu.” Then, in another abrupt change, he added, “I’ll just get us second servings before the roasts are all gone.”

  She wouldn’t have had the nerve to go back for more to eat, but F’lessan took her plate before she could protest. Slightly awed, she watched as he chatted with the cook while the man carved generous slices from the roast.

  All the tables around them were filled now with boisterous diners, enjoying the excellent Turnover meal. Though several called cheerfully to F’lessan as he made his way back, he returned the greetings without stopping to chat. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected based on Mirrim’s tales of some of his pranks at Benden Weyr. Well, that had been Turns ago, before he’d Impressed. He did have a serious side to his nature, along with that most amazing sparkle in his eyes. She should be wary of such a sparkle. Mirrim had said he had been very much a bronze rider! Maybe she should slip away while she had a chance. But that seemed very discourteous. She had barely touched the second glass he’d poured.

  A bright chord of music cut through conversations and she saw that harpers were ranged on the platform, ready to entertain the diners. Moreover, there’d be new music for a Turnover. She’d intended to stay that long. She reached out for Zaranth’s mind, but the green was obviously enjoying herself on the heights with the other dragons.

  F’lessan deftly placed the dish before her. It was piled so high she wondered where she’d put all that food.

  “I brought you some of the things I like, too. Fresh from the ovens.” He topped off their wineglasses. “With music! Good!”

  He had no trouble putting away his second helping of Turnover food. Nor did she, but then, her parents had raised her to “eat what’s on your plate and be thankful.” She took a hasty sip of the white Benden; she hadn’t thought of her family recently. Her life with them had been so different from the one she now had—even before she had Impressed Zaranth. Zaranth—and Monaco Weyr—was her family now, and closer to her than she had ever been to her bloodkin.

  Determinedly she concentrated on something else and the music caught her up. Sometime during the first round of songs, their plates were removed and a basket of southern fruit, northern nuts, and sweet cakes was deposited on the table. Klah was also being served and F’lessan, she noticed, drank more of that than the wine, which he continued to savor in sips.

  It was expected that the diners would join in the chorus of the ballads. When F’lessan opened his mouth to join in, she was astonished. He complained about fire-lizards? They could harmonize, and were supplying descants from wherever they were perched. He couldn’t even find the melodic line! He wasn’t quite a monotone, but so near to one that she hoped the lusty voices around them drowned him out. Yet he was—well, not exactly singing, although he bellowed out the right words—carrying on as if he didn’t care. He merely waved to those at the nearest table, who were grimacing at him and vigorously indicating that he should either shut his mouth or go elsewhere.

  Should she try to drown him out? She had an alto range but at least she sang on pitch and with reasonable musicality. He was gesturing broadly—urgently—for her to sing. His
merry eyes caught hers, and from the mischief in them, she suddenly realized that he knew very well how badly he sang and didn’t care. That he was willing to show such a defect in a culture that apotheosized music, and certainly encouraged vocal talents, astonished her. Mirrim might criticize his fickleness and breezy attitudes to weyrmates, but why hadn’t she mentioned his flawed voice?

  Now, still lofting his hearty non-tone, he cupped his ear to indicate that he couldn’t hear her singing. Out of pique, she took a deep breath and joined in—hopefully loud enough to cover his performance. Vigorously, he approved her efforts, amiably marking out the tempo with both hands. He did have a good sense of timing. At the rousing end of the final chorus, he closed his mouth but applauded enthusiastically.

  “Why do you sing, when you know you can’t?” she demanded in a low voice.

  “Because I do know all the words,” he replied, not at all abashed.

  She had to laugh and waved her hands helplessly. This group of harpers had finished their stint and F’lessan stood up, surveying other tables, waving to someone who waved back, though he made no effort to leave her side. Then suddenly he was hailed.

  “Thought we heard your bellow, F’lessan!”

  Tai saw the unmistakable figures of T’gellan and Mirrim making their way toward them. That wouldn’t do at all! While the bronze rider was urging them to join him, Tai got to her feet and, pausing only to take her wineglass with her—the white Benden was too good to be abandoned—she slipped into the shadows and away.

  She heard him welcoming the bronze and green riders.

  “T’gellan, Mirrim, you’ll never guess who I met at the—”

  His voice broke off as he realized that she had gone. She halted in the darkness, waiting for him to identify her. She’d never hear the last of it from Mirrim.