“Me? No! What d’you think I am, crazy? Not but what that gaggle of young men, fighting at the drop of a glove … Mind you, it’s fists they fight with and I keep all weapons blunted, but their noise is enough to drive me between or outside… . Oh, I take your point, Weyrleader,” Groghe added gloomily and his fingers did a rapid dance on his broad belt. “Yes, makes it difficult, doesn’t it? We’re not geared to live holdless, are we? Toric’s not looking to increase his Holding at all? Something’s got to be done about the youngbloods. Not just in my Hold, either, eh, Sangel?”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Robinton broke in quickly when he saw F’lar hesitating. Considering the alacrity with which F’lar gestured him to proceed, he appeared grateful for the Harper’s interruption. “Well, half a Turn ago. Lord Groghe’s fifth son Benelek had an idea to improve a harvesting implement. The Fort Smithcraftmaster suggested that Fandarel ought to be interested. Indeed the good Mastersmith was. Young Benelek went to Telgar for special instruction and also talked one of the High Reaches’ sons into joining him, that lad also having a mechanical bent. To shorten the tale, there are now eight Holder sons at the Smithcraft Hall, and three Crafthold boys who show an equal talent for the Smith’s craft.”
“What are you suggesting, Robinton?”
“Mischief needs idle hands. I’d like to see a special group of young people, recruited from all Crafts and Holds, exchanging ideas instead of insults.”
Groghe grunted. “They want land to hold, not ideas. What about Southern?”
“That solution can surely be investigated,” Robinton said, treating Groghe’s insistence as offhandedly as he dared. “The Oldtimers won’t live forever.”
“In truth, Lord Groghe, we’re by no means against expanding holds in the Southern,” F’lar said. “It’s just that …”
“The time must be chosen,” Lessa finished when he faltered. There was a curious gleam in her eyes that suggested to the Harper she had other reservations as well.
“We’ll not have to wait until the end of this Pass, I hope,” Sangel said peevishly.
“No, just until we are in no danger of dishonoring our word,” F’lar said. “If you’ll think back, the Weyrs have agreed to explore the Southern Continent …”
“The Weyrs agreed to get rid of Thread and the Red Star, too,” Sangel said, irritated now.
“F’nor here and Canth still bear the scars of that Star,” Lessa reminded him, indignant at having the Weyrs criticized.
“Meaning no offense, Weyrwoman, F’lar, F’nor,” Sangel said, mumbling and not very subtly masking his annoyance.
“Another reason why it might be salutary to have young minds trained to discover new ways of-doing things,” Robinton said, smoothly diverting Lord Sangel.
Robinton was no end pleased at Sangel’s attitude. He’d reminded F’lar and Lessa recently that the older Lord Holders persisted in believing that the dragonriders could, if they would put their minds to it, char Thread at its source on the Red Star and end forever the menace that kept people hold-fast. Mention, however, he deemed sufficient and quickly changed the subject.
“My archivist. Master Arnor, is going blind from trying to decipher eroding Record hides. He does well, but sometimes I think he doesn’t at all understand what it is he is saving and thus unwittingly miscopies blurred words. Fandarel has commented on this problem, too. He’s of the firm opinion that some of the mysteries from those old Records stem from miscopying. Now, if we had copyists who knew the discipline-”
“I’d like Jaxom to have some training that way,” Lytol said.
“I was hoping you’d suggest him.”
“Don’t go back on your offer to take my son, Lytol,” Groghe said.
“Well, if Jaxom’s …”
“I see no reason why both solutions cannot be used,” Robinton said. “We’d have boys his own age and rank fostering here where Jaxom must learn to Hold, but Jaxom would also learn skills with others of different rank and background.”
“After the famine, a feast?” N’ton said in so low a voice that only Robinton and Menolly heard him. “And speaking of feasts, here’s our honored guest!”
Jaxom stood, hesitating, on the threshold, remembering his manners sufficiently to swing a bow to the assembled.