Turns if we can make it. Staying on to talk with the wee one after her dragon rises.” There was a thoughtful pause and she heard, just before she moved out of hearing distance, “We might even stick around for her Hatching!”
Fiona schooled herself to spend less time with the next rider and was glad that she managed to spend no more than a quarter of an hour with each of the next six. However, she did promise herself that she would find more time in the coming months to talk with more riders. So many of them reminded her of her father’s guards, sturdy men who worked hard and determinedly to provide peace and protect the Lord Holder if the need ever arose.
However, the riders were also different; a breed apart. They spoke of firestone. The older ones spoke of spicy firestone, the sort that burned the throats of their dragons. They spoke of riding straps and tack, they shared with her their horror stories of oiling patchy dragonhide, and they shared memories of past Games, and reminiscences of past mating flights.
While none seemed too overwhelmed by the death of the four dragons, Fiona had been in her father’s company long enough to note those who spoke with a forced heartiness — she’d heard the same tone in prideful holders who had over-farmed their lands or were afraid to admit other shortcomings. Often the neediest Fort holder was the one least likely to ask for aid. Lord Bemin was constantly visiting the smaller holds, always on the pretext of preparing or collecting tithe, but even with only thirteen Turns to her, Fiona had noticed the times when her father had ordered some of the guards to help out with a planting or a fencing, or had sent back to the Hold for some special spices or tubers.
“I’ve so many tubers in our root cellars that I’ll have to get rid of them or let them rot,” she recalled him saying to one farmer whose entire crop had been ravaged by tunnel snakes. “Would you do me the favor of taking some?”
Or, “My men have grown soft on this trip; would you let me put them to work on that field over there?”
She knew that she still had a lot to learn, so she found it easy enough to listen to the dragonriders and sometimes surprised herself by suggesting that she was hungry — even when she wasn’t — and would they have some food with her. Then she’d order down or have their dragon bespeak the watch dragon and have some food brought up to them, and that way she could be certain that the rider ate something that day.
She was genuinely sorry, hours later, to have to interrupt her latest meeting when Talenth woke.
“I’ve got to go oil her — her skin’s itching again!” Fiona declared as she made her departure.
“Go! Give her a good oiling,” the brown rider told her, waving her to the door.
“I could come back,” she offered tentatively.
“No, I’ll need to oil my own beast,” he told her kindly. “You go on and see to the others.”
Fiona nodded gratefully and rushed back down to the center stairwell and across the bowl to her weyr and itching dragon. She was pleased with her efforts; she’d managed to see everyone on her half of the level.
She oiled Talenth quickly, making sure to lavish lots of praise — using some of the new phrases she’d heard from the older riders — and then rushed off, promising to return when needed.
As Fiona crossed the Weyr Bowl again, she saw that there were many dragons on the ground and in the air: The activity at Fort Weyr looked more normal.
“Fiona!” Tannaz called to her from near the Kitchen Cavern. Fiona waved and rushed over.
“Cisca said we should stop what we’re doing and help with the evening activities,” Tannaz told her as she got closer. She smiled at the younger Weyrwoman. “Kentai is going to put on a performance and the cooks are putting on a feast.”
So, with a mixture of relief and regret, Fiona turned her skills to the evening’s activities, and was soon busy learning things she’d never known about Southern Boll cooking from the head cook, Zirana.
“Do you sing?” Kentai asked her at one point.
“Sing?” Fiona repeated, wrestling her attention away from the pungent smells and thinly-sliced meats and vegetables being quickly cooked in front of her. She couldn’t help but make a face as she answered, “I sing when I can’t avoid it.”
“Hmm,” Kentai murmured thoughtfully. “Would you prefer to dance?”
“I’d prefer to learn the swords, to be honest,” Fiona told him. She’d grown up on the tales of Nerra of Crom, but no matter how she’d tried, she’d never managed to get her father to agree to her taking lessons.
“Ah, Nerra of Crom!” Kentai said with a knowing nod. “Weyrwomen are more often encouraged to gain skill with the bow, and tonight would not be the time for a display of such skill.”
“Flaming arrows,” Zirana muttered as she poured a batch of thinly-sliced vegetables into a cooking bowl.
“Not after last time!” Kentai laughed. When he caught Fiona’s perplexed look, he explained, “Cisca nearly set the weyrling barracks alight.”
“Strong,” Zirana agreed tersely. She flicked her eyes up to Fiona for a moment. “Good for the Weyr.”
“Why bows?” Fiona inquired of Kentai.
“Tradition,” Kentai replied. “Besides, using a bow is similar to using a flamethrower a-dragonback, or so the Records say.” Before Fiona could ask, he added, “You probably won’t be taught until Talenth is old enough to mate.”
“Probably?” Fiona said, seizing on the word.
Kentai shrugged. “Nothing is for certain in a Weyr.”
“Food is certain,” Zirana corrected him. She made a shooing gesture to Kentai. “Hungry harpers is certain.”
“Harpering is hungry work,” Kentai said reprovingly.
“Cooking is hungry work,” Zirana retorted. She beckoned Fiona to come closer. “Come, learn to cook.”
Fiona didn’t say that she’d been haunting the Fort Hold kitchen since before she could remember, because Zirana’s style of cooking was so completely different from Neesa’s that Fiona wanted to learn all about it. For one thing, it looked like Zirana tended toward lighter fare than Neesa, working with fresh vegetables, thin-sliced meats, all cooked together quickly at high heat. Neesa’s food was more the sort that stewed for half a day or was marinated days in advance. The aroma of cooking food, pungent with fresh spices, banished Fiona’s fatigue.
“Weyrwomen — dragonriders and weyrfolk — must know how to cook,” Zirana declared, waving a wooden spoon threateningly at Kentai, who had sidled back toward the cooking bowls. “Harpers always know how to eat.”
Kentai raised his hands in defeat, saying to Fiona, “Once you’ve learned as much Boll wisdom as this one is willing to teach you, feel free to find me.”
Tannaz, who had been helping one of the dessert cooks preparing fresh fruits, called over to Fiona, “And when you’ve learned from Zirana, you come to me and I’ll teach you proper Igen cooking.”
“Igen!” Zirana swore, tending to her pots. “Igen food is thick and heavy.”
“I’ll teach you how to make desserts from nothing,” the cook at Tannaz’s side piped up.
“You listen to Ellor, here,” Tannaz agreed vehemently. “She’s the best.”
Ellor blushed and bent back down to her work, looking flattered.
“Keep chattering, Melanwy will hear,” Zirana cautioned.
Fiona was startled by the silence that descended. “Who’s Melanwy?”
“Headwoman,” Zirana replied, bending back down to her cooking. Fiona saw that Ellor had also returned intently to her work. When she caught Tannaz’s eye, the older Weyrwoman shook her head quickly, in an obvious “not now” movement. Fiona sighed and turned her attention back to the amazing dishes that Zirana was preparing.
“Ginger, garlic, onions, mushrooms, pernooms, all a good start for cooking,” Zirana explained as she started a fresh cooking bowl, pouring in a quick daub of oil and then throwing in many of the ingredients she’d listed. The smell of ginger, garlic, and pernooms wafted up enticingly. Zirana passed the spoon to Fiona. “You try.”
Fiona gave her a startled look before taking the spoon and quickly swirling the ingredients around the bowl.
“No burning, no sticking,” Zirana instructed. “Just stir fast.”
As Fiona did so, Zirana started throwing in sliced onions, followed by a darkish sauce. “From soya bean,”
