“ ‘No Threads will fall. It’s a harper’s winter tale,’ “ he whined, in faultless imitation of Nessel. “ ‘These dragonmen leech us of heir and harvest,’ “ and his voice took on the constricted, insinuating tenor that could only be Meron’s. “And now the truth is as bitter as a brave man’s fears and as difficult as mockweed to swallow. For all the honor you’ve done them, the dragonmen should leave you to be spun on the Threads’ distaff.”

“Bitra, Lemos, and I,” spoke up Raid, the wiry Lord of Benden, his blunt chin lifted belligerently, “have always done our duty to the Weyr.”

Robinton swung around to him, his eyes flashing as he gave that speaker a long, slow look.

“Aye, and you have. Of all the Great Holds, you three have been loyal. But you others,” and his voice rose indignantly, “as spokesmen for my craft, I know, to the last full stop in the score, your opinion of dragonkind. I heard the first whisper of your attempt to ride out against the Weyr.” He laughed harshly and pointed a long finger at Vincet. “Where would you be today, good Lord Vincet, if the Weyr had not sent you packing back, hoping your ladies would be returned you? All of you,” and his accusing finger marked each of the Lords of that abortive effort, “actually rode against the Weyr because . . . ‘there . . . were . . . no . . . more . . . Threads!”

He planted his fists on either hip and glared at the assembly. F’lar wanted to cheer. It was easy to see why the man was Masterharper, and he thanked circumstance that such a man was the Weyr’s partisan.

“And now, at this critical moment, you have the incredible presumption to protest against any measure the Weyr suggests?” Robinton’s supple voice oozed derision and amazement. “Attend what the Weyrleader says and spare him your petty carpings!” He snapped those words out as a father might enjoin an erring child. “You were,” and he switched to the mildest of polite conversational tones as he addressed F’lar, “I believe, asking our cooperation, good F’lar? In what capacities?”

F’lar hastily cleared his throat.

“I shall require that the Holds police their own fields and woods, during the attacks if possible, definitely once the Threads have passed. All burrows which might land must be found, marked, and destroyed. The sooner they are located, the easier it is to be rid of them.”

“There’s no time to dig firepits through all the lands . . . we’ll lose half our growing space,” Nessel exclaimed.

“There were other ways, used in olden times, which I believe our Mastersmith might know.” F’lar gestured politely toward Fandarel, the archetype of his profession if ever such existed.