“Duty first,” he said with a rueful shrug.

“Of course,” Fax all but snapped and strode smartly ahead, his heels pounding out the anger he could not express otherwise.

F’lar and F’nor followed at a slower pace through the double-doored entry with its great metal panels, into the Great Hall, carved into the cliffside. The U-shaped table was being cleared by nervous servitors, who rattled and dropped tableware as the two dragon-men entered. Fax had already reached the far end of the Hall and stood impatiently at the open slab door, the only access to the inner Hold, which, like all such Holds, burrowed deep into stone, the refuge of all in time of peril.

“They eat not badly,” F’nor remarked casually to F’lar, appraising the remnants still on the table.

“Better than the Weyr, it would seem,” F’lar replied dryly, covering his speech with his hand as he saw two drudges staggering under the weight on a tray that bore a half-eaten carcass.

“Young and tender,” F’nor said in a bitter undertone, “from the look of it. While the stringy, barren beasts are delivered up to us.”

“Naturally.”

“A pleasantly favored Hall,” F’lar said amiably as they reached Fax. Then, seeing Fax impatient to continue, F’lar deliberately turned back to the banner-hung Hall. He pointed out to F’nor the deeply set slit windows, heavy bronze shutters open to the bright noonday sky. “Facing east, too, as they ought. That new Hall at Telgar Hold actually faces south, I’m told. Tell me, Lord Fax, do you adhere to the old practices and mount a dawn guard?”

Fax frowned, trying to parse F’lar’s meaning.

“There is always a guard at the Tower.”

“An easterly guard?”

Fax’s eyes jerked toward the windows, then back, sliding across F’lar’s face to F’nor and back again to the windows.

“There are always guards,” he answered sharply, “on all the approaches.”

“Oh, just the approaches,” and F’lar turned to F’nor and nodded wisely.

“Where else?” demanded Fax, concerned, glancing from one dragonman to the other.

“I must ask that of your harper. You do keep a trained harper in your Hold?”

“Of course. I have several trained harpers.” Fax jerked his shoulders straighter.

F’lar affected not to understand.

“Lord Fax is the overlord of six other Holds,” F’nor reminded his wingleader.

“Of course,” F’lar assented, with exactly the same inflection Fax had used a moment before.

The mimicry did not go unnoticed by Fax, but as he was unable to construe deliberate insult out of an innocent affirmative, he stalked into the glow-lit corridors. The dragonmen followed.

“It is good to see one Holder keeping so many ancient customs,” F’lar said to F’nor approvingly for Fax’s benefit as they passed into the inner Hold. “There are many who have abandoned the safety of solid rock and enlarged their outer Holds to dangerous proportions. I can’t condone the risk myself.”

“Their risk, Lord F’lar. Another’s gain,” Fax snorted derisively, slowing to a normal strut.

“Gain? How so?”