Lessa had taken a sip of the klah and barely managed to swallow the acid stuff. The bread was lumpy and half-baked, the sausage within composed of huge, inedible chunks, yet both Terry and Fandarel ate with great appetite. Indifferent service was one matter; but decent food quite another.
If this is the food he barters you for flame throwers, Id refuse, she exclaimed. Why, even the fruit is rotten.
Lessa!
I wonder you can achieve as much as you do if you have to survive on this, she went on, ignoring Flars reprimand.
Whats your wifes name?
Lessa, Flar repeated, more urgently.
No wife, the Smith mumbled, but the rest of his sentence came out more as bread crumbs than words and he was reduced to shaking his head from side to side.
Well, even a headwoman ought to be able to manage better than this.
Terry cleared his mouth enough to explain. Our headwoman is a good enough cook but shes so much better at bringing up faded ink on the skins weve been studying that shes been doing that instead.
Surely one of the other wives …
Terry made a grimace. Weve been so pressed for help, with all these additional projects, and he waved at the distance-writer, that anyone who can has turned crafter He broke off, seeing the consternation on Lessas face.
Well, Ive women sitting around the Lower Cavern doing make-work. Ill have Kenalas and those two cronies of hers here to help as soon as a green can bring em. And, Lessa added emphatically, pointing a stern finger at the Smith, theyll have strict orders to do nothing in the craft, no matter what!
Terry looked frankly relieved and pushed aside the meatroll he had been gobbling down, as if he had only now discovered how it revolted him.
In the meantime, Lessa went on with an indignation that was ludicrous to Flar. He knew who managed Benden Weyrs domestic affairs. Im making a decent brew of klah. How you could have choked down such bitter dregs as this is beyond my comprehension! She swept out the door, pot in hand, her angry monologue drifting back to amused listeners.
Well, shes right, Flar said, laughing. This is worse than the worst the Weyr ever got.
To tell the truth, I never really noticed before, Terry replied, staring at his plate quizzically.
Thats obvious.
It keeps me going, the Smith said placidly, swallowing a half-cup of klah to clear his mouth.
Seriously, are you that short of men that you have to draft your women, too?
Not short of men, exactly, but of people who have the dexterity, the interest some of our projects require, Terry spoke up, in quick defense of his Craftmaster.
I mean no criticism, Master Terry, Flar said, hastily.
Weve done a good deal of reviewing of the old Records, too, Terry went on, a little defensively still. He flipped the pile of skins that had been spilled down the center of the table. Weve got answers to problems we didnt know existed and havent encountered yet.
And no answers to the troubles which beset us, Fandarel added, gesturing skyward with his thumb.
Weve had to take time to copy these Records, Terry continued solemnly, because they are all but illegible now …
I contend that we lost more than was saved and useful. Some skins were worn out with handling and their message obliterated.
The two smiths seemed to be exchanging portions of a well-rehearsed complaint.
Did it never occur to you to ask the Masterharper for help in transcribing your Records? asked Flar.
Fandarel and Terry exchanged startled glances.
I can see it didnt. Its not the Weyrs alone who are autonomous. Dont you Craftmasters speak to each other? Flars grin was echoed by the big Smith, recalling Robintons words of the previous evening. However, the Harperhall is usually overflowing with apprentices, set to copying whatever Robinton can find for them. They could as well take that burden from you.
Aye, that would be a great help, Terry agreed, seeing that the Smith did not object.
You sound doubtful or hesitant? Are any Crafts secret?
Oh, no. Neither the Craftmaster nor I hold with cabalistic, inviolable sanctities, passed at deathbed from father to son …