McCaffrey, Anne – DragonQuest. Chapter 3, 4

She heard the ring in his voice and smiled back at him approvingly.

“When we cut through traditions before the Oldtimers came forward, we also discovered how hollow and restrictive some of them were; such as this business of minimal contact between Hold, Craft and Weyr. Oh, true, if we wish to bespeak another Weyr, we can go there in a few seconds on a dragon, but it takes Holder or Crafter days to get from one place to another. They had a taste of convenience seven Turns ago. I should never have acquiesced and let the Oldtimers talk me out of continuing a dragon in Hold and Craft. Those signal fires won’t work, and neither will Sweepriders. You’re absolutely right about that, Lessa. Now if Fandarel can think up some alternative method of … What’s the matter? Why are you smiling like that?”

“I knew it. I knew you’d want to see the Smith and the Harper so I sent for them, but they won’t be here until you’ve eaten and rested.” She tested the fresh numbweed to see if it had hardened.

“And of course you’ve eaten and rested, too?”

She got off his lap in one fluid movement, her eyes almost black. “I’ll have sense enough to go to bed when I’m tired. You’ll keep on talking with Fandarel and Robinton long after you’ve chewed your business to death. And you’ll drink — as if you haven’t learned yet that only a dragon could out drink that Harper and that Smith — ” She broke off again, her scowl turning into a thoughtful frown. “Come to think of it, we’d do well to invite Lytol, if he’d come. I’d like to know exactly what the Lord Holders’ reactions are. But first, you eat!”

F’lar laughingly obeyed, wondering how he could suddenly feel so optimistic when it was now obvious that the problems of Pern were coming home to roost on his weyr ledge again.

CHAPTER IV

Midday at Southern Weyr

KYLARA whirled in front of the mirror, turning her head to watch her slender image, observing the swing and fall of the heavy fabric of the deep red dress.

“I knew it. I told him that hem was uneven,” she said, coming to a dead stop, facing her reflection, suddenly aware of her own engaging scowl. She practiced the expression, found one attitude that displeased her and carefully schooled herself against an inadvertent re-use.

“A frown is a mighty weapon, dear,” her foster mother had told her again and again, “but do cultivate a pretty one. Think what would happen if your face froze that way.”

Her posing diverted her until she twisted, trying to assess her profile, and again caught sight of the swirl of the guilty hem.

“Rannelly!” she called, impatient when the old woman did not answer instantly. “Rannelly!”

“Coming, poppet. Old bones don’t move as fast. Been setting your gowns to air. There do be such sweetness from that blooming tree. Aye, the wonder of it, a fellis tree grown to such a size.” Rannelly carried on a continuous monologue once summoned, as if the sound of her name turned on her mind. Kylara was certain that it did, for her old nurse voiced, like a dull echo, only what she heard and saw.

“Those tailors are no better than they should be, and sloppy about finishing details,” Rannelly muttered on, when Kylara sharply interrupted her maundering with the problem. She exhaled on the note of a bass drone as she knelt and flipped up the offending skirt. “Aye and just see these stitches. Taken in haste they were, with too much thread on the needle…”

“That man promised me the gown in three days and was seaming it when I arrived. But I need it.”

Rannelly’s hands stopped; she stared up at her charge. “You weren’t ever away from the Weyr without saying a word… .”

“I go where I please,” Kylara said, stamping her foot. “I’m no babe to be checking my movements with you. I’m the Weyrwoman here at Southern. I ride the queen. No one can do anything to me. Don’t forget that.”

“There’s none as forgets my poppet’s …”