Free The Skies of Pern by Anne McCaffrey Page B

leg, grimacing as the tendon resisted full extension. He gave a sigh.
    He’s all right
, Mnementh told Lessa privately, waking from his nap.
    All that dancing he tried to tell me he didn’t enjoy
, Lessa replied.
    “We need younger minds dealing with all the changes,” she said aloud.
    He turned his amber eyes on her, amused and slightly condescending. “Young heads can be as certain that they are right as the old ones. And no experience to draw on.” He ate another pastry, licking his fingers as the juice within leaked. “Idarolan’s been studying astronomy with that journeyman of Wansor’s. He got Morilton to make him some special mirrors for a telescope to set up on that bridge of his down at Nerat’s Ankle.”
    “For all that I like Curran as Masterfishman, I’ll miss Idarolan’s sly wit in the Council.” She took another tidbit and then a sigh escaped her lips after she swallowed. “I shall miss them. I’ll miss them all.”
    F’lar reached over the table to cover her thin, small, but remarkably capable hand, squeezing her fingers.
    “We both shall, love.” He picked up his glass. “To absent friends.”
    She raised hers, the glasses touched, and they finished off their wine.
    Simultaneously they rose. F’lar slipped his arm about her slender shoulders, drawing her against his body as they walked in step to the sleeping room.
    Lessa didn’t think she’d gotten to sleep before they were both roused by angry dragon trumpeting.
Southern Hold—1.1.31
    Toric was recovering from too much wine consumed the night before. The red had definitely been too young to be potable, even if it had come from his own vineyard and therefore was handy and cost him nothing. Except this morning’s headache. Well, it took time to establish vines and, considering the cost of the starts from Benden, he had been eager to see some return on the investment. MasterVintner Welliner’s estimate of how much wine he would be bottling from the hillsides under cultivation was inaccurate, too. If this year’s press was not up to what he’d been led to believe he could expect, he’d have a long chat with Welliner. Toric slowly opened dry eyes in his aching skull.
    “You’re getting old, Father,” Besic said. He handed Toric a steaming mug. “Mother’s compliments.”
    Toric stifled a groan as he took the mug. Though he knew from experience that Ramala’s morning-after cure was efficacious, the steam was slightly nauseating and he averted his head before attempting the first gulp.
    Besic settled himself in the sling chair, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles, thumbs hooked in his belt as he regarded his father with a bland expression.
    “Hosbon’s here. Sailed in from Largo last night. Got here at dawn.”
    Toric nearly dribbled the potion down his chin at the unwelcome news. Had Besic timed that remark until he had the cup to his lips? The two men tolerated each other warily, not because of Blood ties but out of begrudged respect. Toric grunted and drank as fast as the heat, and the taste, allowed.
    “I told him that you were busy.”
    “I am,” Toric said. The liquid made him belch and left a vile taste in his mouth. He stood, balancing himself on his bare feet, to prove that he was capable of overcoming the previous night’s excesses as easily as ever.
    He strode to where Ramala had laid out fresh clothes and stepped into the new short trousers and matching loose shirt that would be comfortable during the heat of the day. He growled as he had to sort the rank cords against his right shoulder. Nuisancy things. As if everyone didn’t recognize the Lord Holder of Southern. That caused him to snort, as any reminder did of how he had been gulled by the Weyrleaders. From the corner of his eye he saw the smirk on Besic’s face, as if he read his sire’s thought.
    “Didn’t you think to bring in—”
    Besic interrupted him by pointing to the breakfast tray on the table.
    Despite the fact that the pounding in