F’lon nodded approvingly. “The man has got to be stopped, Tarathel.”
The Telgar Holder scowled, unused to such familiarity from a much younger man, even if a Weyrleader was equal in rank to a
Lord holder Robinton nudged the bronze rider in the ribs, hoping to jar him into more discretion. F’lon ignored the hint.
“And it’s up to you Lord Holders to set him right. When Thread comes, he’ll be unable to provide adequate help to the holds he’s taken over.”
Tarathel raised the black and bushy eyebrows which gave him such a formidable appearance. “Really, Weyrleader? I had no idea the return was so imminent. May I ask what Benden Weyr will be able to do to provide adequate help to us?”
F’lon stiffened and Robinton kept his expression bland with an effort. As far as the MasterHarper knew, this was the first time a Lord Holder had openly challenged the Weyr. Clearly F’lon didn’t like it one bit.
“Benden Weyr will be ready to meet Thread when it comes, Lord Tarathel. On that you can rely,” he said with such dignity and purpose that Tarathel nodded approval.
“When it comes,” he murmured as he moved off to greet the next wave of guests arriving by dragon.
“Look, F’lon, I’ve been your ffiend since we were boys,” Robinton said, drawing the dragonrider to one side for privacy, “but you’ve as much tact as a tunnel snake. It doesn’t do the Weyr, or you, any good to antagonize all the Lord Holders.”
“I don’t, but Tarathel’s as hide-bound as Raid, and that’s saying a lot.”
“Tarathel will be long dead before Thread comes. Were I you, I’d start right now getting young Larad on your side. Unless, of course,
Fax decides to duel with him and remove competition.” “Humph!”
Robinton was relieved to note that F’lon did not dismiss that suggestion out of hand. In fact, the bronze rider made a point of seeking out the lad who, like any male his age, was gratified to be in a Weyrleader’s company.
What happened later that afternoon was so grotesque that afterwards Robinton cursed himself, plagued with a sense of guilt that his idle remark could have had such devastating consequences.
He saw the beginning: a lad wearing Fax’s colours knocking into Larad, at F’lon’s side, and then irritably demanding an apology.
Larad was surprised and started to comply, but F’lon stopped him.
“You knocked into Larad, boy,” F’lon told the lad. “You will apologize to young Lord Larad. He ranks you.”
“I’m with Lord Fax, Dragonrider.” The boy’s tone and sneer were contemptuous.
Robinton had not yet reached the little group when F’lon backhanded the boy, cutting his lip.
“You will keep a civil tongue in your head and you will
apologize to Lord Larad, who is of Telgar Blood. I doubt you can claim even half-Blood rights.”
“Kepiru? Who gave you a bloody lip?” And a heavyset man, also wearing Fax’s colours and the shoulder knot of a captain – though generally those were reserved for ships’ captains – pushed through those watching the encounter.
Robinton felt the tension in the air as he reached F’lon. “Now, what appears to be the problem?” he said in his best conciliatory manner.
Larad gratefully turned to the MasterHarper. He was confused and highly embarrassed.
“That… dragonrider’ – the captain’s tone was as contemptuous as Kepiru’s had been – “has struck my young brother, insulting our Blood. The matter requires redress.”
“Redress from your brother to Lord Larad most certainly,” F’lon said, bristling.
Robinton caught F’lon by the arm, pressing it hard to cool him down. He was beginning to fear that this trivial incident had been contrived. The underfed lad looked no more like a brother to the captain than Larad did.
“That’s right. I observed the whole thing as I came,” the harper said, smiling pleasantly. “An accident.” He leaned heavily on that word, pulling at F’lon even as he felt the tension and anger building in the dragonrider’s body. “This is a Gather, a meeting of folk in good faith and for pleasant purposes.” He smiled winningly at the two in Fax’s colours, but they were having no more of his mediation than F’lon was.