“Bitra, Lemos, and I,” spoke up Raid, the wiry Lord of Benden, his blunt chin lifted belligerently, “have always done our duty to the Weyr.”
Robinton swung around to him, his eyes flashing as he gave that speaker a long, slow look. “Aye, and you have. Of all the Great Holds, you three have been loyal. But you others,” and his voice rose indignantly, “as spokesman for my craft, I know, to the last full stop in your score, your opinion of dragonkind. I heard the first whisper of your attempt to ride out against the Weyr.”
He laughed harshly and pointed a long finger at Vincet.
“Where would you be today, good Lord Vincet, if the Weyr had not sent you packing back, hoping your ladies would be returned you? All of you,” and his accusing finger marked each of the Lords of the abortive effort, “actually rode against the Weyr because … ‘there … were … no … more … Threads!’ ” He planted his fists on either hip and glared at the assembly. F’lar wanted to cheer. It was easy to see why the man was Masterharper, and he thanked circumstance that such a man was the Weyr’s partisan.
“And now, at this critical moment, you have the incredible presumption to protest against any measure the Weyr suggests?” Robinton’s supple voice oozed derision and amazement. “Attend what the Weyrleader says and spare him your petty carpings!” He snapped those words out as a father might enjoin an erring child. “You were,” and he switched to the mildest of polite conversational tones as he addressed F’lar, “I believe, asking our cooperation, good F’lar? In what capacities?”
F’lar hastily cleared his throat.
“I shall require that the Holds police their own fields and woods, during the attacks if possible, definitely once the Threads have passed. All burrows which might land must be found, marked, and destroyed. The sooner they are located, the easier it is to e rid of them.”
“There’s no time to dig firepits through all the lands …
we’ll lose half our growing space,” Nessel exclaimed.
“There were other ways, used in olden times, which I believe our Mastersmith might know.” F’lar gestured politely toward Fandarel, the archetype of his profession if ever such existed.
The Smith Craftmaster was by several inches the tallest man in the Council Room, his massive shoulders and heavily muscled arms pressed against his nearest neighbors, although he had made an effort not to crowd against anyone. He rose, a giant tree-stump of a man, booking thumbs like beast-horns in the thick belt that spanned his waistless midsection. His voice, by no means sweet after Turns of bellowing above roaring hearths and hammers, was, by comparison to Robinton’s superb delivery, a diluted, unsupported light baritone.
“There were machines, that much is true,” he allowed in deliberate, thoughtful tones. “My father, it was he, told me of them as a curiosity of the Craft. There may be sketches in the Hall. There may not. Such things do not keep on skins for long.” He cast an oblique look under beetled brows at the Tanner Craftmaster.
“It is our own hides we must worry about preserving,” F’lar remarked to forestall any intercraft disputes.
Fandarel grumbled in his throat in such a way that F’lar was not certain whether the sound was the man’s laughter or a guttural agreement.
“I shall consider the matter. So shall all my fellow craftsmen,” Fandarel assured the Weyrleader. “To sear Threads from the ground without damaging the soil may not be so easy. There are, it is true, fluids which burn and sear. We use an acid to etch design on daggers and ornamental metals. We of the Craft call it agenothree. There is also the black heavy-water that lies on the surface of pools in lgen and Boll. It burns hot and long. And if, as you say, the Cold Turn made the Threads break into dust, perhaps ice from the coldest northlands might freeze and break grounded Threads.
However, the problem is to bring such to the Threads where they fall since they will not oblige us by falling where we want them… .” He screwed up his face in a grimace.