F’lar stared at him, surprised. Did the man realize how humorous he was? No, he was speaking with sincere concern.
Now the Mastersmith scratched his head, his tough fingers making audible grating sounds along his coarse hair and heat-toughened scalp.
“A nice problem. A nice problem,” he mused, undaunted.
“I shall give it every attention.” He sat down, the heavy bench creaking under his weight.
The Masterfarmer raised his hand tentatively.
“When I became Craftmaster, I recall coming across a reference to the sandworms of lgen. They were once cultivated as a protective” “Never heard lgen produced anything useful except heat and sand,” quipped someone.
“We need every suggestion,” F’lar said sharply, trying to identify that heckler. “Please find that reference, Craftmaster.
Lord Banger of lgen, find me some of those sandworms!”
Banger, equally surprised that his arid Hold had a hidden asset, nodded vigorously.
“Until we have more efficient ways of killing Threads, all Holders must be organized on the ground during attacks, to spot and mark burrows, to set firestone to burn in them. I do not wish any man to be scored, but we know how quickly Threads burrow deep, and no burrow can be left to multiply.
You stand to lose more,” and he gestured emphatically at the Holder Lords, “than any others. Guard not just yourselves, for a burrow on one man’s border may grow across to his neighbor’s. Mobilize every man, woman, and child, farm and crafthold. Do it now.”
The Council Room was fraught with tension and stunned reflection until Zurg, the Masterweaver, rose to speak.
“My craft, too, has something to offer … which is only fair since we deal with thread every day of our lives … in regard to the ancient methods.” Zurg’s voice was light and dry, and his eyes, in their creases of spare, lined flesh, were busy, darting from one face in his audience to another. “In Ruath Hold I once saw upon the wall … where the tapestry now resides, who knows?” He slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then at Bargen of the High Reaches who had succeeded to Fax’s title there. “The work was as old as dragonkind and showed, among other things, a man on foot, carrying upon his back a curious contraption. He held within his hand a rounded, sword-long object from which tongues of flame … magnificently woven in the orange-red dyes now lost to us … spouted toward the ground. Above, of course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes predominating …
again we’ve lost that true dragon bronze shade. Consequently I remember the work as much for what we now lack as for its subject matter.”
“A flamethrower?” the Smith rumbled. “A flamethrower,” he repeated with a falling inflection. “A flamethrower,” he murmured thoughtfully, his heavy brows drawn into a titanic scowl. “A thrower of what sort of flame? It requires thought.”
He lowered his head and didn’t speak, so engrossed in the required thought that he lost interest in the rest of the discussion.
“Yes, good Zurg, there have been many tricks of every trade lost in recent Turns,” F’lar commented sardonically. “If we wish to continue living, such knowledge must be revived … fast. I would particularly like to recover the tapestry of which Master Zurg speaks.”
F’lar looked significantly at those Lords who had quarreled over Fax’s seven Holds after his death.
“It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it appear at Ruatha. Or at Zurg’s or at Fandarel’s crafthall. Whichever is most convenient.”
There was some shuffling of feet, but no one admitted ownership.
“It might then be returned to Fax’s son, who is now Ruatha’s Lord,” F’lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice. Lytol snorted softly and glowered around the room. F’lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Jaxom, reared by such a cheerless if honest guardian.
“If I may. Lord Weyrleader,” Robinton broke in, “we might all benefit, as your maps prove to us, from research in our own Records.” He smiled suddenly, an unexpectedly embarrassed smile. “I own I find myself in some disgrace for we Harpers have let slip unpopular ballads and skimped on some of the longer Teaching Ballads and Sagas … for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.”