“Menolly’s not a Seaholder’s daughter for naught,” the Harper said, clearing his throat as he remembered those grim hours. “She kept us afloat. Though at one point, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to stay alive!”
“You’re not a good seaman, then, Robinton?”
F’lar asked with a laugh. He gripped the Southerner’s arm in greeting and with his left hand gave the Harper an affectionate crack on the arm.
Robinton suddenly realized that his adventure had had disturbing repercussions in this Weyr. He was both gratified and chagrined. True, at the time of the gale, he’d been far too occupied with his rebellious stomach to think beyond surviving the next wave that crashed over their little boat. Menolly’s skill had kept him from realizing the acute danger they were in. Afterward he had come to appreciate their position and wondered if Menolly had suppressed her own fear lest she lose honor in his eyes. She’d gone about her seamanship, managing to save most of the wind-torn sail, rigging a sea anchor, lashing him to the mast as he’d been made weak by nausea and retching.
“No, F’lar, I’m no seaman,” Robinton said now, with a shudder. “I’ll leave that to those born to the craft.”
“And follow their advice,” Toric warned, somewhat tartly. He turned to the Weyrleaders. “He’s got no weather sense either. And, of course, Menolly didn’t realize the strength of the Western Stream at this time of the year.” He raised his shoulders to indicate his helplessness against such stupidity.
“Is that why you were dragged so far from Southern?” F’lar asked, gesturing at the newcomers to seat themselves at the round table set in the corner of the big room.
“So I’m informed,” said Robinton, grimacing over the long lectures he’d received on current, tide, drift and wind. He knew more than he’d take care ever to need about those aspects of the seaman’s craft. Lessa laughed at his droll tone and poured wine.
“Do you realize,” he asked, twirling the glass in his fingers, “that there wasn’t a drop of wine on board?”
“Oh, no!” Lessa cried in comic dismay. F’lar’s laughter joined hers. “What deprivation!”
Robinton then got down to the purpose of this visit. “It was, however, a felicitous accident. There is, my dear Weyrleaders, considerably more of the Southern Continent than we’d ever thought.” He glanced at Toric, who produced the map he’d hastily copied from the larger one in his Hold. F’lar and Lessa obligingly held the comers to flatten the stiff hide. The Northern Continent was detailed as was the known portion of the Southern Continent. Robinton pointed to the thumb of the Southern peninsula which contained the Southern Weyr and Toric’s Hold, then gestured to the right and left of that landmark where the coastline and a good part of the interior, marked off by two rivers, had been topographically detailed. “Toric has not been idle. You can see how much he has extended knowledge of the terrain beyond what F’nor was able to do during his journey south.”
“I asked permission of T’ron to continue the exploration,” the Southerner’s expression mirrored contempt and dislike, “but he barely heard me out and said I could do as I liked just as long as the Weyr was properly supplied with game and fresh fruit.”
“Supplied?” exclaimed F’lar. “They’d only to walk a few dragon lengths from the weyrs and pick what they needed.”
“Sometimes they do. Mostly I find it easier to have my holders supply their demands. They don’t bother us then.”
“Bother you?” Lessa’s voice was indignant.
“That’s what I said, Weyrleader,” Toric replied, a steely note in his voice; he turned back to the map. “My holders have been able to penetrate this far into the interior. Very difficult going. Tough jungle growth that dulls the keenest chopping blade in an hour. Never seen such vegetation! We know there are hills here and a mountain range farther back,” he tapped the relevant area on the map, “but I’d not fancy carving my way there length by length. So we scouted along the shoreline, found these two rivers and proceeded up them as far as we could. The western river ends in a flat marshy lake, the southeastern one at a falls, six-seven dragon lengths high.” Toric straightened, regarding the small portion of explored land with mild disgust. “I’d hazard the guess that even if the land went no farther south than that range, it’s twice the size of South Boll or Tillek!”