“I wonder you can achieve as much as you do if you have to survive on this,” she went on, ignoring F’lar’s reprimand. “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Lessa,” F’lar repeated, more urgently.

“No wife,” the Smith mumbled, but the rest of his sentence came out more as breadcrumbs than words and he was reduced to shaking his head from side to side.

“Well, even a headwoman ought to be able to manage better than this.”

Terry cleared his mouth enough to explain. “Our headwoman is a good enough cook but she’s so much better at bringing up faded ink on the skins we’ve been studying that she’s been doing that instead.”

“Surely one of the other wives…”

Terry made a grimace. “We’ve been so pressed for help, with all these additional projects,” and he waved at the distance-writer, “that anyone who can has turned crafter—” He broke off, seeing the consternation on Lessa’s face.

“Well, I’ve women sitting around the Lower Cavern doing make-work. I’ll have Kenalas and those two cronies of hers here to help as soon as a green can bring ’em. And,” Lessa added emphatically, pointing a stern finger at the Smith, “they’ll have strict orders to do nothing in the craft, no matter what!”

Terry looked frankly relieved and pushed aside the meatroll he had been gobbling down, as if he had only now discovered how it revolted him.

“In the meantime,” Lessa went on with an indignation that was ludicrous to F’lar. He knew who managed Benden Weyr’s domestic affairs. “I’m making a decent brew of klah. How you could have choked down such bitter dregs as this is beyond my comprehension!” She swept out the door, pot in hand, her angry monologue drifting back to amused listeners.

“Well, she’s right,” F’lar said, laughing. “This is worse than the worst the Weyr ever got.”

“To tell the truth, I never really noticed before,” Terry replied, staring at his plate quizzically.

“That’s obvious.”

“It keeps me going,” the Smith said placidly, swallowing a half-cup of klah to clear his mouth.

“Seriously, are you that short of men that you have to draft your women, too?”

“Not short of men, exactly, but of people who have the dexterity, the interest some of our projects require,” Terry spoke up, in quick defense of his Craftmaster.

“I mean no criticism, Master Terry,” F’lar said, hastily.

“We’ve done a good deal of reviewing of the old Records, too,” Terry went on, a little defensively still. He flipped the pile of skins that had been spilled down the center of the table. “We’ve got answers to problems we didn’t know existed and haven’t encountered yet.”

“And no answers to the troubles which beset us,” Fandarel added, gesturing skyward with his thumb.