Dragonquest

CHAPTER II

Evening (Fort Weyr Time).

Meeting of the Weyrleaders at Fort Weyr

WHEN MNEMENTH burst out of between above Fort Weyr, he entered so high above the Weyr mountain that it was a barely discernible black point in the darkening land below. F’lar’s exclamation of surprise was cut off by the thin cold air that burned his lungs.

You must be calm and cool, Mnementh said, doubling his rider’s astonishment. You must command at this meeting. And the bronze dragon began a long spiral glide down to the Weyr.

F’lar knew that no admonitions could change Mnementh’s mind when he used that firm tone. He wondered at the great beast’s unexpected initiative. But the bronze dragon was right.

F’lar could accomplish little if he stormed in on T’ron and the other Weyrleaders, bent on extracting justice for his wounded Wing-second. Or if F’lar was still seething from the subtle insult implicit in the timing of this meeting. As Weyrleader of the offending rider, T’ron had delayed answering F’lar’s courteously phrased request for a meeting of all Weyrleaders to discuss the untoward incident at the Craftmasterhall. When T’ron’s reply finally arrived, it set the meeting for the first watch, Fort Weyr time; or high night, Benden time, a most inconsiderate hour for F’lar and certainly inconvenient for the other easterly Weyrs, Igen, Ista and even Telgar. D’ram of Ista Weyr and R’mart of Telgar, and probably G’narish of Igen would have something sharp to say to T’ron about such timing, though their lag was not as great as Benden Weyr’s.

So T’ron wanted F’lar off balance and irritated. Therefore, F’lar would appear all amiability. He’d apologize to D’ram, R’mart and G’narish for inconveniencing them, while making certain that they knew T’ron was responsible.

The main issue, to F’lar’s now calm mind, was not the attack on F’nor. The real issue was the abrogation of two of the strongest Weyr restrictions; restrictions that ought to be so ingrained in any dragonrider that their fracture was impossible.

It was an absolute that a dragonrider did not take a green dragon or a queen from her Weyr when she was due to rise for mating. It made no difference whatsoever that a green dragon was sterile because she chewed firestone. Her lust could affect even the most insensitive commoners with sexual cravings. A mating female dragon broadcast her emotions on a wide band. Some green-brown pairings were as loud as bronze-gold. Herdbeasts within range stampeded wildly and fowls, wherries and whers went into witless hysterics. Humans were susceptible, too, and innocent Hold youngsters often responded with embarrassing consequences. That particular aspect of dragon matings didn’t bother weyrfolk who had long since disregarded sexual inhibitions. No, you did not take a dragon out of her Weyr in that state.

It was irrelevant to F’lar’s thinking that the second violation stemmed from the first. From the moment riders could take their dragons between, they were abjured to avoid situations that might lead to a duel, particularly since dueling was an accepted custom among Craft and Hold. Any differences between riders were settled in unarmed bouts, closely refereed within the Weyr. Dragons suicided when their riders died. And occasionally a beast panicked if his rider was badly hurt or remained unconscious for long. A berserk dragon was almost impossible to manage and a dragon’s death severely upset his entire Weyr. So armed dueling, which might injure or kill a dragon, was the most absolute proscription.

Today, a Fort Weyr rider had deliberately – judging from the testimony F’lar had from Terry and the other smithcrafters present – abrogated these two basic restrictions. F’lar experienced no satisfaction that the offending rider came from Fort Weyr even if T’ron, the major critic of Benden Weyr’s relaxed attitudes toward some traditions, was in a very embarrassing position. F’lar might argue that his innovations breached no fundamental Weyr precepts, but the five Old-time Weyrs categorically dismissed every suggestion originating from Benden Weyr. And T’ron bleated the most about the deplorable manners of modern Holders and Crafters, so different – so less subservient, F’lar amended – to the acquiescence of Holders and Crafters in their distant past Turn.

It would be interesting, F’lar mused, to see how T’ron the Traditionalist explained away the actions of his riders, now guilty of far worse offenses against Weyr traditions than anything F’lar had suggested.

Common sense had dictated F’lar’s policy – eight Turns ago – of throwing open Impressions to likely lads from Holds and Crafts; there hadn’t been enough boys of the right age in Benden Weyr to match the number of dragon eggs. If the Oldtimers would throw open the mating flights of their junior queens to bronzes from other Weyrs, they’d soon have clutches as large as the ones at Benden, and undoubtedly queen eggs, too. However, F’lar could appreciate how the Oldtimers felt. The bronze dragons at Benden and Southern Weyr were larger than most Oldtimer bronzes. Consequently, they’d fly the queens. But, by the Shell, F’lar hadn’t suggested that the senior queens be flown openly. He did not intend to challenge the Oldtimer Weyrleaders with modern bronzes. He did feel that they’d profit by new blood among their beasts. Wasn’t an improvement in Dragonkind anywhere of benefit to all the Weyrs?

And it was practical diplomacy to invite Holders and Crafters to Impressions. There wasn’t a man alive in Pern who hadn’t secretly cherished the notion that he might be able to Impress a dragon. That he could be linked for life to the love and sustaining admiration of these gentle great beasts. That he could transverse Pern in a twinkling, astride a dragon. That he would never suffer the loneliness that was the condition of most men – a dragonrider always had his dragon. So, whether the commoners had a relative on the Hatching Ground hoping to attach a dragonet or not, the spectators enjoyed the vicarious thrill of being present, at witnessing this “mysterious, rite.” He’d observed that they were also subtly reassured that such dazzling fortune was available to some lucky souls not bred in the Weyrs. And those bound to a Weyr should, F’lar felt, get to know the riders since those riders were responsible for their lives and livelihoods.

To have assigned messenger dragons to every major Hold and Craft had been a very practical measure, too, when Benden had been Pern’s only dragonweyr. The northern continent was broad. It took days to get messages from One coast to the other. The Harpercraft’s system of drums was a poor second when a dragon could transport himself, his rider and an ungarbled message instantly anywhere on the planet.

F’lar, too, was exceedingly aware of the dangers of isolation. In the days before the first Thread had again fallen on Pern – could it be only seven Turns ago? – Benden Weyr had been vitiated by its isolation, and the entire planet all but lost. ·Where F’lar earnestly felt that dragonmen should make themselves accessible and friendly, the Oldtimers were obsessed by a need for privacy. Which only fertilized the ground for such incidents as had just occurred. T’reb on a disturbed green had swooped down on the Smithmastercrafthall and demanded – not requested – that a craftsman give up an artifact, which had been made by commission for a powerful Lord Holder.

With thoughts that were more disillusioned than vengeful F’lar realized that Mnementh was gliding fast toward Fort Weyr’s jagged rim. The Star Stones and the watchrider were silhouetted against the dying sunset. Beyond them were the forms of three other bronzes, one a good half-tail larger than the others. That would be Orth, so T’bor was already arrived from Southern Weyr. But only three bronzes? Who was yet to come to the meeting?

Salth from High Reaches and Branth with R’mart of Telgar Weyr are absent. Mnementh informed his rider.

High Reaches and Telgar Weyrs missing? Well, T’kul of High Reaches was likely late on purpose. Odd though; that caustic Oldtimer ought to enjoy tonight. He’d have a chance to snipe at both F’lar and T’bor and he’d thoroughly enjoy T’ron’s discomfiture. F’lar had never felt any friendliness for or from the dour, dark-complected High Reaches Weyrleader. He wondered if that was why Mnementh never used T’kul’s name. Dragons ignored human names when they didn’t like the bearer. But for a dragon not to name a Weyrleader was most unusual.

F’lar hoped that R’mart of Telgar would come. Of the Oldtimers, R’mart and G’narish of Igen were the youngest, the least set in their ways. Though they tended to side with their contemporaries in most affairs against the two modern Weyrleaders, F’lar and T’bor, F’lar had noticed lately that those two were sympathetic to some of his suggestions. Could he work on that to his advantage today – tonight! He wished that Lessa could have come with him for she was able to use deft mental pressures against dissenters and could often get the other dragons to answer her. She had to be careful, for Dragonriders were apt to suspect they were being manipulated.

Mnementh was now within the Bowl of Fort Weyr itself and veering toward the ledge of the senior queen’s weyr. T’ron’s Fidranth was not there, guarding his queen Weyrmate as Mnementh would have been. Or perhaps Mardra, the senior Weyrwoman, was gone. She was as quick to find exception and slights as T’ron, though once she hadn’t been so touchy. In those first days after the Weyrs had come up, she and Lessa had been exceedingly close. But Mardra’s friendship had gradually turned into an active hatred. Mardra was a handsome woman, with a full, strong figure, and while she was nowhere near as promiscuous with her favors as Kylara of Southern Weyr, she was much sought after by bronze riders. By nature she was intensely possessive and not, F’lar realized, particularly intelligent. Lessa, dainty, oddly beautiful, already a Weyr legend for that spectacular ride between time, had unconsciously attracted attention from Mardra. Mardra evidently didn’t consider the fact that Lessa made no attempt to entice any favorite from Mardra, did not, indeed, dally with any man (for which F’lar was immensely pleased). Add to that the ridiculous matter of their mutual Ruathan origin – Mardra conceived a hatred for Lessa. She seemed to feel that Lessa, the only survivor of that Bloodline, had had no right to renounce her claim on Ruatha Hold to young Lord Jaxom. Not that a Weyrwoman could take Hold or would want to. The bases for Mardra’s hatred of Lessa were spurious. Lessa had no control over her beauty and had had no real choice about taking Hold at Ruatha.

So it was as well the Weyrwomen had not been included in this meeting. Put Mardra in the same room with Lessa and there’d be problems. Add Kylara of the Southern Weyr who was apt to make trouble for the pure joy of getting attention by disrupting others, and nothing would be accomplished Nadira of Igen Weyr liked Lessa but in a passive way. Bedella of Telgar Weyr was stupid and Fanna of Ista, taciturn. Merika of the High Reaches was as much a sour sort as her Weyrleader T’kul.

This was a matter for men to settle.

F’lar thanked Mnementh as he slid down the warm shoulder to the ledge, stumbling as his bootheels caught on the ridges of claw scars on the edge. T’ron might have put out a basket of glows, F’lar thought irritably, and then caught himself. Another trick to put everyone in as unreceptive a mood as possible.

Loranth, senior queen dragon of Fort Weyr, solemnly regarded F’lar as he entered the main room of the Weyr. He gave her a cordial greeting, suppressing his relief that there was no sign of Mardra. If Loranth was solemn, Mardra would have been downright unpleasant. Undoubtedly the Fort Weyrwoman was sulking beyond the curtain between weyr and sleeping room. Maybe this awkward time had been her idea. It was after western dinner hours and too late for more than wine for those from later time zones. She thus avoided the necessity of playing hostess.

Lessa would never resort to such mean-spirited strategies. F’lar knew how often the impulsive Lessa had bitten back quick answers when Mardra had patronized her. In fact, Lessa’s forbearance with the haughty Fort Weyrwoman was miraculous, considering Lessa’s temper. F’lar supposed that his Weyrmate felt responsible for uprooting the Oldtimers. But the final decision to go forward in time had been theirs.

Well, if Lessa could endure Mardra’s condescension out of gratitude, F’lar could try to put up with T’ron. The man did know how to fight Thread effectively and F’lar had learned a great deal from him at first. So, in a determinedly pleasant frame of mind, F’lar walked down the short passage to the Fort Weyr Council Room.

T’ron, seated in the big stone chair at the head of the Table, acknowledged F’lar’s entry with a stiff nod. The light of the glows on the wall cast unflattering shadows on the Oldtimer’s heavy, lined face. It struck F’lar forcibly that the man had never known anything but fighting Thread. He must have been born when the Red Star began that last fifty-Turn-long Pass around Pern, and he’d fought Thread until the Star had finished its circuit. Then followed Lessa forward. A man could get mighty tired of fighting Thread in just seven short Turns. F’lar halted that line of thought.

D’ram of Ista Weyr and G’narish of Igen also contented themselves with nods. T’bor, however, gave F’lar a hearty greeting, his eyes glinting with emotion.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” F’lar said to all. “I apologize for taking you from your own affairs or rest with this request for an emergency meeting of all Weyrleaders, but it could not wait until the regular Solstice Gathering.”

“I’ll conduct the meetings at Fort Weyr, Benden,” T’ron said in a cold harsh voice. “I’ll wait for T’kul and R’mart before I have any discussion of your – your complaint.”

“Agreed.”

T’ron stared at F’lar as if that hadn’t been the answer he’d anticipated and he’d gathered himself for an argument that hadn’t materialized. F’lar nodded to T’bor as he took the seat beside him.

“I’ll say this now, Benden,” T’ron continued. “The next time you elect to drag us all out of our Weyrs suddenly, you apply to me first. Fort’s the oldest Weyr on Pern. Don’t just irresponsibly send messengers out to everyone.”

“I don’t see that F’lar acted irresponsibly,” G’narish said, evidently surprised by T’ron’s attitude. G’narish was a stocky young man, some Turns F’lar’s junior and the youngest of the Weyrleaders to come forward in time. “Any Weyrleader can call a joint meeting if circumstances warrant it. And these do!” G’narish emphasized this with a curt nod, adding when he saw the Fort Weyrleader scowling at him, “Well, they do.”

“Your rider was the aggressor, T’ron,” D’ram said in a stern voice. He was a rangy man, getting stringy with age, but his astonishing shock of red hair was only lightly grizzled at the temples. “F’lar’s within his rights.”

“You had the choice of time and place, T’ron,” F’lar pointed out, all deference.

T’ron’s scowl deepened.

“Wish Telgar’d get here,” he said in a low, irritated tone.

“Have some wine, F’lar?” T’bor suggested, an almost malicious smile playing on his lips for T’ron ought to have offered immediately. “Of course, it’s not Benden Hold wine, but not bad. Not bad.”

F’lar gave T’bor a long warning look as he took the proffered cup. But the Southern Weyrleader was watching to see how T’ron reacted. Benden Hold did not tithe of its famous wines as generously to the other Weyrs as it did to the one which protected its lands.

“When are we going to taste some of those Southern Weyr wines you’ve been bragging about, T’bor?” G’narish asked, instinctively trying to ease the growing tensions.

“Of course, we’re entering our fall season now,” T’bor said making it seem that Fort was to blame for the chill outside – and inside – the Weyr. “However, we expect to start pressing soon. We’ll distribute what we can spare to you northerners.”

“What do you mean? What you can spare?” T’ron asked, staring hard at T’bor.

“Well, Southern plays nurse to every wounded dragonrider. We need sufficient on hand to drown their sorrows adequately. Southern Weyr supports itself, you must remember.”

F’lar stepped on T’bor’s booted foot as he turned to D’ram and inquired of the Istan Weyrleader how the last Laying had gone.

“Very well, thanks,” D’ram replied pleasantly, but F’lar knew the older man did not like the mood that was developing. “Fanna’s Mirath laid twenty-five and I’ll warrant we’ve half a dozen bronzes in the clutch.”

“Ista’s bronzes are the fastest on Pern,” F’lar said gravely. When he heard T’bor stirring restlessly beside him, he reached swiftly to Mnementh with a silent “Ask Orth to please tell T’bor to speak with great thought for the consequences. D’ram and G’narish must not be antagonized.” Out loud he said, “A weyr can never have too many good bronzes. If only to keep the queens happy.” He leaned back, watching T’bor out of the corner of his eye to catch is reaction when the dragons completed the message relay. T’bor gave a sudden slight jerk, then shrugged, his glance shifting from D’ram to T’ron and back to F’lar. He looked more rebellious than cooperative. F’lar turned back to D’ram. “If you need some likely prospects for any green dragons, there’s a boy . . .”

“D’ram follows tradition, Benden,” T’ron cut in. “Weyrbred is best for Dragonkind. Particularly for greens.”

“Oh?” T’bor glared with malicious intent at T’ron.

D’ram cleared his throat hastily and said in a too loud voice, “As it happens, we’ve a good group of likely boys in our Bower Caverns. The last Impression at G’narish’s Weyr left him with a few he has offered to place at Ista Weyr. So I thank you kindly, F’lar. Generous indeed when you’ve eggs hardening at Benden too. And a queen, I hear?”

D’ram exhibited no trace of envy for another queen egg at Benden Weyr. And Fanna’s Mirath hadn’t produced a single golden egg since she’d come time between.

“We all know Benden’s generosity,” T’ron said in a sneering tone, his eyes flicking around the room, everywhere but at F’lar. “He extends help everywhere. And interferes when it isn’t needed.”

“I don’t call what happened at the Smithhall interference,” D’ram said, his face assuming grave lines.

“I thought we were going to wait for T’kul and R’mart,” G’narish said, glancing anxiously up the passageway.

So, F’lar mused, D’ram and G’narish are upset by today’s events.

“T’kul’s better known for the meetings he misses than the ones he attends,” T’bor remarked.

“R’mart always comes,” G’narish said.

“Well, they’re neither of them here. And I’m not waiting on their pleasure any longer,” T’ron announced, rising.

“Then you’d better call in B’naj and T’reb,” D’ram suggested with a heavy sigh.

“They’re in no condition to attend a meeting.” T’ron seemed surprised at D’ram’s request. “Their dragons only returned from flight at sunset.”

D’ram stared at T’ron. “Then why did you call the meeting for tonight?”

“At F’lar’s insistence.”

T’bor rose to protest before F’lar could stop him, but D’ram waved him to be seated and sternly reminded T’ron that the Fort Weyrleader had set the time, not F’lar of Benden.

“Look, we’re here now,” T’bor said, banging his fist on the table irritably. “Let’s get on with it. It’s full night in southern Weyr. I’d like . . .”

“I conduct the Fort Weyr meetings, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud, firm voice, although the effort of keeping his temper told in the flush of his face and the brightness of his eyes.

“Then conduct it,” T’bor replied. “Tell us why a green rider took his dragon out of your Weyr when she was close to heat.”

“T’reb was not aware she was that close . . .”

“Nonsense,” T’bor cut in, glaring at T’ron. “You keep telling us how much of a traditionalist you are, and how well trained your riders are. Then don’t tell me a rider as old as T’reb can’t estimate his beast’s condition.”

F’lar began to think he didn’t need an ally like T’bor.

“A green changes color rather noticeably,” G’narish said, with some reluctance, F’lar noted. “Usually a full day before she wants to fly.”

“Not in the spring,” T’ron pointed out quickly. “Not when she’s off her feed from Threadscore. It can happen very quickly. Which it did.” T’ron spoke loudly, as if the volume of his explanation would bear more weight than its logic.

“That is possible,” D’ram admitted slowly, nodding his head up and down before he turned to see what F’lar thought.

“I accept that possibility,” F’lar replied, keeping his voice even. He saw T’bor open his mouth to protest and kicked the man under the table. “However, according to the testimony of Craftmaster Terry, my rider urged T’reb repeatedly to take his dragon away. T’reb persisted in his attempt to – to acquire the belt knife.”

“And you accept the word of a commoner against a rider?” T’ron leaped on F’lar’s statement with a great show of surprised indignation and incredulity.

“What would a Craftmaster,” and F’lar emphasized the title, “gain by bringing false witness?”

“Those smithcrafters are the most notorious misers of Pern,” T’ron replied as if this were a personal insult. “The worst of all the crafts when it comes to parting with honest tithe.”

“A jeweled belt knife is not a tithe item.”

“What difference does that make, Benden?” T’ron demanded.

F’lar stared back at the Fort Weyrleader. So T’ron was trying to set the blame on Terry! Then he knew that his rider had been at fault. Why couldn’t he just admit it and discipline the rider? F’lar only wanted to see that there’d be no repetitions of such an incident.

“The difference is that that knife had been crafted for Lord Larad of Telgar as a gift to Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold for his wedding six days from now. The blade was not Terry’s to give or withhold. It already belonged to a Lord Holder. Therefore, the rider was . . .”

“Naturally you’d take the part of your rider, Benden,” T’ron cut in with a slight, unpleasant smile on his face. “But for a rider, a Weyrleader, to take the part of a Lord Holder against dragonfolk – ” and T’ron turned to D’ram and G’narish with a helpless shrug of dismay.

“If R’mart were here, you’d be – ” T’bor began.

D’ram gestured at him to be quiet. “We’re not discussing possession but what seems to be a grave breach of Weyr discipline,” he said in a voice that overwhelmed T’bor’s protest. “However, F’lar, you do admit that a green, off her feed from Threadscore, can suddenly go into heat without warning?”

F’lar could feel T’bor urging him to deny that possibility. He knew that he had made a mistake in pointing out that the knife had been commissioned for a Lord Holder. Or in taking the part of a Holder not bound to Benden Weyr. If only R’mart had been here to speak in Lord Larad’s behalf. As it was, F’lar had prejudiced his case. The incident had disturbed D’ram so much that the man was deliberately closing his eyes to fact and seeking any extenuating circumstance he could. If F’lar forced him to see the event clearly, would he prove anything to a man unwilling to believe that Dragonriders could be guilty of error? Would he get D’ram to admit that Craft and Hold had privileges, too?

He took a slow deep breath to control the frustrated anger he felt. “I have to concede that it is possible a green can go into heat without warning under those conditions.” Beside him, T’bor cursed under his breath. “But for exactly that reason, T’reb ought to have known to keep his green in the Weyr.”

“But T’reb’s a Fort Weyr rider,” T’bor began heatedly, jumping to his feet. “And I’ve been told often enough that . . .”

“You’re out of order, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud voice, glaring at F’lar, not T’bor. “Can’t you control your riders, F’lar?”

“That is quite enough, T’ron,” D’ram cried, on his feet.

As the two Oldtimers locked glances, F’lar murmured urgently to T’bor, “Can’t you see he’s trying to anger us? Don’t lose control!”

“We’re trying to settle the incident, T’ron,” D’ram continued forcefully, “not complicate it with irrelevant personalities. Since you are involved in this business, perhaps I’d better conduct the meeting. With your permission, of course, Fort.”

To F’lar’s mind, that was a tacit admission that D’ram realized, however he might try to evade it, how serious the incident was. The Istan Weyrleader turned to F’lar, his brown eyes dark with concern. F’lar entertained a half hope that D’ram might have seen through T’ron’s obstructiveness, but the Oldtimer’s next words disabused him. “I do not agree with you, F’lar, that the Crafter acted in good part. No let me finish. We came to the aid of your troubled time, expecting to be recompensed and supported in proper fashion, but the manner and the amount of tithing rendered the Weyrs from Hold and Craft has left much to be desired. Pern is much more productive than it was four Hundred Turns ago and yet that wealth has not been reflected in the tithes. There is four times the population of our Time and much, much more cultivated land. A heavy responsibility for the Weyrs. And – ” he cut himself off with a rueful laugh. “I’m digressing, too. Suffice it to say that once it was obvious a dragonrider found the knife to his liking, Terry should have gifted it him. As craftsmen used to, without any question or hesitation.

“Then,” D’ram’s face brightened slightly, “T’reb and B’naj would have left before the green went into full heat, your F’nor would not have become involved in a disgraceful public brawl. Yes, it is all too plain,” and D’ram straightened his shoulders from the burden of decision, “that the first error of judgment was on the part of the craftsman.” He looked at each man, as if none of them had control over what a craftsman might do. T’bor refused to meet his eyes and ground a bootheel noisily into the stone floor.

D’ram took another deep breath. Was he, F’lar wondered bitterly, having trouble digesting that verdict?

“We cannot, of course, permit a repetition of a green in mating heat outside her weyr. Or Dragonriders in an armed duel . . .”

“There wasn’t any duel!” The words seemed to explode from T’bor. “T’reb attacked F’nor without warning and sliced him up. F’nor never even drew his knife. That’s no duel. That’s an unwarranted attack . . .”

“A man whose green is in heat is unaccountable for his actions,” T’ron said, loud enough to drown T’bor out.

“A green who never should have been out of her weyr in the first place no matter how you dance around the truth, T’ron,” T’bor said, savage with frustration. “The first error in judgment was T’reb’s. Not Terry’s.”

“Silence!” D’ram’s bellow silenced him and Loranth answered irritably from her weyr.

“That does it,” T’ron exclaimed, rising. “I’m not having my senior queen upset. You’ve had your meeting, Benden, and your – your grievance has been aired. This meeting is adjourned.”

“Adjourned?” G’narish echoed him in surprise. “But – but nothing’s been done.” The Igen Weyrleader looked from D’ram to T’ron puzzled, worried. “And F’lar’s rider was wounded. If the attack was . . .”

“How badly wounded is the man?” D’ram asked, turning quickly to F’lar.

“Now you ask!” cried T’bor.

“Fortunately,” and F’lar held T’bor’s angry eyes in a stern, warning glance before turning to D’ram to answer, “the wound is not serious. He will not lose the use of the arm.”

G’narish sucked his breath in with a whistle. “I thought he’d only been scratched. I think we . . .”

“When a rider’s dragon is lustful – ” D’ram began, but broke off when he caught sight of the naked fury on T’bor’s face, the set look on F’lar’s. “A dragonrider can never forget his purpose, his responsibility, to his dragon or to his Weyr. This can’t happen again. You’ll speak to T’reb, of course, T’ron?”

T’ron’s eyes widened slightly at D’ram’s question.

“Speak to him? You may be sure he’ll hear from me about this. And B’naj, too.”

“Good,” said D’ram, with the air of a man who has solved a difficult problem equitably. He nodded toward the others. “It would be wise if we Weyrleaders caution all our riders against the possibility of a repetition. Put them all on their guard. Agreed?” He continued nodding, as if to spare the others the effort. “It is hard enough to work with some of these arrogant Holders and Crafters without giving them any occasion to fault us.” D’ram sighed deeply and scratched his head. I never have understood how commoners can forget how much they owe Dragonriders!”

“In four hundred Turns, a man can learn many new things,” F’lar replied. “Coming, T’bor?” and his tone was just short of command. “My greetings to your Weyrwomen, riders. Good night.”

He strode from the Council Room, T’bor pounding right behind him, swearing savagely until they got to the outer passageway to the Weyr ledge.

“That old fool was in the wrong, F’lar, and you know it!”

“Obviously.”

“Then why didn’t you . . .”

“Rub his nose in it?” F’lar finished, halting in mid-stride and turning to T’bor in the dark of the passageway.

“Dragonriders don’t fight. Particularly Weyrleaders.”

T’bor let out a violent exclamation of utter disgust.

“How could you let a chance like that go by? When I think of the times he’s criticized you – us – ” T’bor broke off. “Never understand how commoners can forget all they owe Dragonriders?” and T’bor mimicked D’ram’s pompous intonation, “If they really want to know . . .”

F’lar gripped T’bor by the shoulder, appreciating the younger man’s sentiments all too deeply.

“How can you tell a man what he doesn’t want to hear? We couldn’t even get them to admit that T’reb was in the wrong T’reb, not Terry, and not F’nor. But I don’t think there’ll be another lapse like today’s and that’s what I really worried about.”

“What?” T’bor stared at F’lar in puzzled confusion.

“That such an incident could occur worries me far more than who was in the wrong and for what reason.”

“I can’t follow that logic any more than I can follow T’ron’s.”

“It’s simple. Dragonmen don’t fight. Weyrleaders can’t. T’ron was hoping I’d be mad enough to lose control. I think he was hoping I’d attack him.”

“You can’t be serious!” T’bor was plainly shaken.

“Remember, T’ron considers himself the senior Weyrleader on Pern and therefore infallible.”

T’bor made a rude noise. Despite himself, F’lar grinned.

“True,” he continued, “but I’ve never had a reason to challenge him. And don’t forget, the Oldtimers taught us a great deal about Thread fighting we certainly didn’t know.”

“Why, our dragons can fight circles around the Oldtimers.”

“That’s not the point, T’bor. You and I, the modern Weyrs have certain obvious advantages over the Oldtimers – size of dragons, number of queens – that I’m not interested in mentioning because it only makes for bad feeling. Nevertheless, we can’t fight Thread without the Oldtimers. We need the Oldtimers more than they need us.” F’lar gave T’bor a wry, bitter grin. “D’ram was partly right. A dragonman can never forget his purpose, his responsibility. When D’ram said ‘to his dragon, to his Weyr’, he’s wrong. Our initial and ultimate responsibility is to Pern, to the people we were established to protect.”

They had proceeded to the ledge and could see their dragons dropping off the height to meet them. Full dark had descended over Fort Weyr now, emphasizing the weariness that engulfed F’lar.

“If the Oldtimers have become introverted, we, Benden and Southern, cannot. We understand our Turn, our people. And somehow we’ve got to make the Oldtimers understand them, too.”

“Yes, but T’ron was in the wrong!”

“Would we have been more right to make him say it?”

T’bor bit back an angry response and F’lar hoped that the man’s rebellion was dissipating. There was good heart and mind in the Southern Weyrleader. He was a fine dragonrider, a superb fighter, and his Wings followed him without hesitation. He was not as strong out of the skies, however, but with subtle guidance had built Southern Weyr into a productive, self-supporting establishment. He instinctively looked to F’lar and Benden Weyr for direction and companionship. Part of that, F’lar was sure, was because of the difficult and disturbing temperament of the Southern Weyrwoman, Kylara.

Sometimes F’lar regretted that T’bor proved to be the only bronze rider who could cope with that female. He wondered what subtle deep tie existed between the two riders, because T’bor’s Orth consistently outflew every bronze to mate with Prideth, Kylara’s queen, though it was common knowledge that Kylara took many men to her bed.

T’bor might be short-tempered and not the most diplomatic adherent, but he was loyal and F’lar was grateful to him. If he’d only held his temper tonight . . .

“Well, you usually know what you’re doing, F’lar,” the Southern Weyrleader admitted reluctantly, “but I don’t understand the Oldtimers and lately I’m not sure I care.”

Mnementh hovered by the ledge, one leg extended. Beyond him, the two men could hear Orth’s wings beating the night air as he held his position.

“Tell F’nor to take it easy and get well. I know he’s in good hands down at Southern,” F’lar said as he scrambled up Mnementh’s shoulder and urged him out of Orth’s way.

“We’ll have him well in next to no time. You need him,” replied T’bor.

Yes, thought F’lar as Mnementh soared up out of the Fort Weyr Bowl, I need him. I could have used his wits beside me tonight. I could have used his thinking on T’ron’s invidious attempts to switch blame.

Well, if it had been another rider, wounded under the same circumstances, he couldn’t have brought F’nor anyhow. And T’bor with his short temper would still have been present, and played right into T’ron’s hands. He couldn’t honestly blame T’bor. He’d felt the same burning desire to make the Oldtimers see the facts in realistic perspective. But – you can’t take a dragon to a place you’ve never seen. And T’bor’s outbursts had not helped. Strange, T’bor hadn’t been so touchy as a weyrling nor when he was a Benden Weyr Wing-second. Being Weyrmate to Kylara had changed him but that woman was enough to unsettle; to unsettle D’ram.

F’lar entertained the wild mental image of the blonde sensual Kylara seducing the sturdy Oldtimer. Not that she’d even glanced at the Istan Weyrleader. And she certainly wouldn’t have stayed with him. F’lar was glad that they’d eased her out of Benden Weyr. Hadn’t she been found on the same Search as Lessa? Where’d she come from? Oh, yes, Telgar Hold. Come to think of it, she was the present Lord’s full-blooded sister. Just as well Kylara was in Weyrlife. With her proclivity, she’d have had her throat sliced long ago in a Hold or a Crafthall.

Mnementh transferred them between and the cold of that awful nothingness made his bones ache. Then they emerged over the Benden Weyr Star Stones and answered the watchrider’s query.

Lessa wasn’t going to like his report of the meeting, F’lar thought. If only D’ram, usually an honest thinker, had seen past the obvious. He had a feeling that maybe G’narish had.

Yes, G’narish had been troubled. Maybe the next time the Weyrleaders met to confer, G’narish might side with the modern riders.

Only, F’lar hoped, there wouldn’t be another occasion for this evening’s grievance.