Nicat’s gaze was guileless, and it certainly would be no hair off his hide if Jaxom chose to teach Ruth to chew firestone and had appropriated sacks from the mines.
“We’ve none presently, but you never can tell when a clutch’ll be found.”
“I only mention it in passing. They’re pure death for those pesky, ruinous tunnel snakes, not to mention being very clever about discovering gas pockets we don’t smell. And gas pockets is about all we’re mining at present.”
The Masterminer sounded depressed and worried. Jaxom wondered what was in the air these days to produce such a general atmosphere of anxiety and sorrow. He’d always liked Master Nicat and, during their lessons in the mines, had come to respect the short heavyset craftmaster whose face was still black-pored from working as an apprentice below the ground. As they climbed the stone steps to the queen’s weyr, Jaxom wished again that he wasn’t bound by that promise to N’ton not to time it. He had too many demands on ordinary daytime to risk a hop between to the Southern beaches although Ruth might be lucky enough to locate a clutch quickly. He would like to oblige Master Nicat; he’d also like to find an egg for Corana. It also wouldn’t hurt to indulge the disgruntled Tegger, who might have learned how to keep a firelizard now. But there was no way, short of timing it, that Jaxom could complete a trip south right now.
Just as they reached the entrance, a bronze dragon appeared above the Star Stones, bugling. The watchdragon replied. Jaxom noticed that everyone had stopped stock still to hear the exchange. Shells and shards, but they were nervous here in Benden. He wondered who had arrived.
The Weyrleader from Ista, Ruth told him.
D’ram? It wasn’t incumbent on other Weyrleaders to attend Hatchings, though generally, unless Threadfall was imminent in their own area, they did come-especially to Benden. Jaxom had already spotted N’ton, R’mart of Telgar Weyr, G’narish of Igen, T’bor of the High Reaches among those gathered. Then he remembered the Master Harper’s talk about D’ram’s Weyrwoman, Fanna. Was she worse?
When they reached the Council Chamber, Nicat parted from him. Jaxom took one look at Lessa, seated in the Weyrwoman’s huge stone chair, her face intense in its frown, and he quickly moved to the far comer of the room. Her keen eyes wouldn’t be able to spot the score on his cheek at that distance.
This was not to be a large meeting, the Harper had said. Jaxom watched the Mastercraftsmen file in, the other Weyrleaders, the major Lord Holders, but there were no weyrwomen or wingseconds except for Brekke and F’nor.
D’ram arrived in the company of F’lar and a younger man Jaxom didn’t recognize though he wore wingsecond colors. If Jaxom had been upset by the glimpse of the Masterharper’s aging, he was shocked by the change in D’ram’s appearance. The man seemed to have shrunk in the past Turn to a husk, dried up and frail. The Istan Weyrleader’s step was jerky and his shoulders rounded.
Lessa rose in one of her swift graceful gestures and went to meet the Istan, her hands outstretched, her expression unexpectedly compassionate. Jaxom had had the impression that she had been totally immersed in her brooding. Now, all her attention was centered on D’ram.
“We’re all assembled as you asked, D’ram,” Lessa said, pulling him to the chair beside her and pouring him a cup of wine.
D’ram thanked her for the wine and welcome, took a sip but, instead of seating himself, he turned to face the meeting. Jaxom could see that his face was marred by lines of fatigue as well as of age.
“Most of you already know my situation and Fanna’s … illness,” he said in a low hesitant voice. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath. “I wish to step down now as Istan Weyrleader. None of our queens is due to mate but I have no heart to continue longer. My Weyr has agreed. G’dened,” and D’ram indicated the man who had accompanied him, “has led the past ten Falls on his Barnath. I should have stepped down sooner but …” he shook his head, smiling sadly, “we so hoped the illness would pass.” He straightened his shoulders with an effort. “Caylith is oldest queen and Cosira a good Weyrwoman. Barnath has flown Caylith already and there’s been a large strong clutch to prove them.” Now he hesitated, glancing warily at Lessa. “It was the custom in the Oldtime, when a Weyr was leaderless, to throw open the first queen’s flight in that Weyr to all young bronzes. In this fashion a new leader was fairly chosen. I would invoke that custom now.” He said it almost belligerently and yet his manner toward Lessa was entreating.