The Second Weyr

“She’s brought matters to a head, Sean,” Sorka said when they arrived at their apartment, a series of five adjoining caverns that had needed only minor alteration and addition to be a comfortable, and private, living space. “There’s a group of forty-seven young people who dream of occupying that place.”

“Probably more,” he said, hanging his riding gear on the pegs near the entrance.

“You knew?”

He shrugged, once again smoothing back his now-dry hair. “It’s honest speculation, according to Dave Caterel, Paul, and Otto. It would come sooner or later-a need to split into separate groups to cover the ground that’s going to be cultivated and keep it Thread-free. Red had a go at me last time Thread fell on Ruatha lands.” He shrugged again and, taking a seat, held up his right leg. Sorka straddled the leg, braced herself for his push, and hauled the boot off; automatically, she repeated the process for the left boot while they talked. “Torene would have done better getting your dad to intercede for them.”

“Now, Sean. . .” Sorka began, ready to defend Torene.

“Don’t ‘now, Sean’ me, woman,” he said. She glanced quickly over her shoulder to test his mood and decided that she could speak bluntly. “She’s right, for all I think she’s a tad young to be so. . . so beforehand.”

“There isn’t an ounce of malice in Torene Ostrovsky,” Sorka said staunchly.

“I haven’t suggested there was, lovey,” he said. Scattering his boots, he pulled her by the waist onto his lap. “But it’s obvious we’ll have to move quickly on this, now that the ball’s rolling.”

He laid his head between her shoulder blades as he often did, not amorously, but because he was better at using gestures than words and had many ways of expressing his love for her.

“Have you decided who will lead the new Weyr?” she asked, covering his hands on her waist with hers and leaning into the close embrace.

“Weyrs,” he said, giving her a final hug before he gently put her back on her feet.

“Weyrs?”

“Yes. Plural.” He rose and, stripping off his shirt as he walked toward their bathing room, gestured with his head for her to follow.

“We’ve more than enough dragons, with three clutches hardening, to populate three, maybe four Weyrs. . .”

“Torene’s dream site, Big Island, that crater in Telgar’s holding, and where else?”

He paused on his way through their bedroom long enough to step out of his pants and heavy socks, and ball them up to throw into the laundry basket.

“We’ve got two other choices, one down on that mid-eastern peninsula and another up in the High Ranges, the crater with all those spiky peaks. But, to make the necessary improvements even in the east coast place, we’ll need to monopolize the remaining functional stonecutters. . .”

“Is there enough fuel?”

“Fulmar Stone’s got all of ‘em rigged to run off generators.” Sean grinned at Sorka as he stepped into the steaming bath. Having a copious supply of thermally heated water was one of the luxuries he enjoyed. The excess water ran off down the pipes that helped keep the Weyr warm. Far underground the water went through a filtering system and returned, cleansed, to the reservoirs, to be pumped up again. Other pipes brought drinking water from the cisterns that were kept topped up by mountain streams.

“But the actual cutting surfaces are wearing out.”

“True, but Telgar’s trying to make replacement abrasives that’ll slice rock. There’re enough industrial diamonds near Big Island to give us a fair approximation of the cutting surface. ‘Tany rate, I dealt with the Ierne group. They get the second east coast cave system and give us a workforce to make our own adaptations.” He grinned both with pleasure as he sank to his chin in the warm water and with an understandable pride in the success of his machinations. “With them there, and in a fertile area, they’ll have enough to tithe to the new Weyr.”

“You thought all this up?”

He opened his eyes and grinned at her, suddenly boyish. “Hell no, your old man gave me the wink and the nod, and stood by me while I fought it all out with Lilienkamp.” After Paul Benden’s death the previous winter, Joel Lilienkamp had been voted into the management of Fort Hold. He was, in some ways, much harder to listen to in the further disbursement of people-whom he regarded as renewable resources-and of irreplaceable material, which the colony had to conserve.

“You mean, you weren’t hunting south with the others?”

He nodded once and then shook his head and began vigorously soaping himself. “Nope. Carenath made do nicely with an injured bullock that had fallen into a crevasse that your father said we could have. I didn’t want any more rumors to circulate than necessary.” He grimaced. “There seem to be enough.”

She had to wait until he had ducked his head to clear the soap suds from his hair before she asked the next question.

“Who’re to be Weyrleaders?”