“Shells, can’t I leave Benden Weyr for a week without everything falling apart?” F’nor demanded so vehemently that F’lar stared at him in momentary surprise before he chuckled and seemed to relax. “That’s better,” F’nor said, echoing the grin. “Come. There are a couple of the lizards in the Weyrhall and I need some klah. I was out hunting clutches all morning myself, you know. Or would you prefer to sample some of Southern’s wine?”

“Ha!” F’lar made the exclamation a challenge.

When they entered the Weyrhall, Mirrim was there alone, stirring the stew in the big kettles. The two greens were watching her from the long, wide mantel. She gave the appearance of having an odd deformity of chest until F’nor realized that she had rigged a sling around her shoulders in which the wounded brown was suspended, his little eyes pinpoints of light. At the sound of their boots on the paving, she swung round, her eyes wide with an apprehension which turned to surprise as she glanced from F’nor to F’lar. Her mouth made an “o” of astonishment as she recognized the Benden Weyrleader by his resemblance to F’nor.

“And you’re the—the young lady who Impressed three?” F’lar asked, crossing the big room to her.

Mirrim bobbed a series of nervous curtsies, causing the brown to squawk in protest to such bouncing.

“May I see him?” F’lar asked and deftly stroked a tiny eye ridge. “He’s a real beauty! Canth in miniature,” and F’lar glanced slyly at his half-brother to see if the jibe registered. “Will he recover from his wounds—ah…”

“Mirrim is her name,” F’nor prompted in a bland tone that implied his brother’s memory was failing him.

“Oh, no, Weyrleader—he’s healing nicely,” the girl said with another bob.

“Full stomach, I see,” F’lar commented approvingly. He glanced at the pair huddled together on the mantel and crooned soft encouragement. They began to preen, stretching fragile, translucent green wings, arching their backs and emitting an echoing hum in pleasure. “You’ll have your hands full with this trio.”

“I’ll manage them, sir. I promise. And I won’t forget my duties, either,” she said breathlessly, her eyes still wide. With a gasp, she turned to give a splashing stir to the contents of the nearest pot, then whirled back again before the men could turn. “Brekke’s not here. Would you like some klah? Or the stew? Or some…”

“We’ll serve ourselves,” F’nor assured her, picking up two mugs.

“Oh, I ought to do that, sir…”

“You ought to watch your kettles, Mirrim. We’ll manage,” F’lar told her kindly, mentally contrasting the state of domestic affairs at the Crafthall to the order and the cooking of good rich food at this hall.

He motioned the brown rider to take the table furthest from the kitchen hearth.