She spoke quickly to the women inside, who were clustered about in small groups, some working at tables, some dandling babies, others just sitting quietly, bereft. She told them who she was, assured them that Telgar would recover, that she rode a queen who would rise soon, and that they should be prepared for the noon meal and a wake in the evening.

“My man, L’rat, what’s to become of his things?” a woman asked quietly from the far corner. She was dark-haired, with dark, shiny eyes and brilliant teeth. To Fiona, she seemed like one with trader blood.

“They’ll be handled in the usual way, when a rider is lost,” Fiona assured her.

“How soon will your riders want to move in?” another woman demanded.

“Your riders,” Fiona replied, “are here already and need quarters now.”

“So who’ll clean out near five hundred weyrs?” the short, dark-haired woman demanded.

“Hush, Shaneese, that’s no way to talk!” the other woman chided her.

“You’ve quarters of your own, Vikka, so you’ve no concern,” Shaneese retorted, “but others lived with their mates and it’ll take more than one afternoon to find new quarters.”

“I’m not throwing anyone out,” Fiona declared sternly. “Shaneese, can you get me a list of those who live in the weyrs?”

The short woman eyed her warily for a moment before giving her a stiff nod.

“Good,” Fiona said. “There are only forty riders now, so it should be possible to find them accommodations without displacing any families.” She glanced toward the woman named Vikka. “You have quarters of your own?”

“Aye, Weyrwoman,” Vikka said with a curt nod. “I’m storeswoman and need to be close to the main gates.”

“How are we for stores?”

“Oh, we’ll not run out for a long time, Weyrwoman!” Vikka declared, with a hard to read expression on her face. “D’gan was good at providing for the Weyr.”

Someone snorted derisively and Fiona glanced in the direction of the noise to spot a tall, blond woman who looked back furtively.

“Weyrleader D’gan believed in the rights of the Weyr,” Vikka explained to Fiona. She jerked her head toward the blond woman. “Tevora was a crafter’s daughter before …”

Fiona felt a moment of revulsion for the dead Weyrleader. She glanced at Tevora with renewed interest.

“Which craft?” she asked her quietly.

“Smith,” Tevora said with a snivel. “I was taken—”

“It’s an honor to be brought to the Weyr!” Shaneese snarled.

“It’s an honor when you want to go!” Tevora snapped back, advancing on the smaller woman angrily.

“No one stays at the Weyr against their will,” Fiona said, glancing around the room for any signs of similarly mistreated women.

“So you say!” Tevora shot back angrily.

“Yes,” Fiona told her calmly. “So I say.” She glanced around the room. “We’re cooking lunch, and we’ll have a proper mourning this evening, please tell everyone.”