Obediently F’nor crossed to the hearth where she, Lessa, and another young woman who looked familiar though F’nor couldn’t place her, were examining a small kettle.

“My duty to you, Lessa, Manora—” and he paused, groping for the third name.

“You ought to remember Brekke, F’nor,” Lessa said, raising her eyebrows at his lapse.

“How can you expect anyone to see in a place dense with fumes?” F’nor demanded, making much of blotting his eyes on his sleeve. “I haven’t seen much of you, Brekke, since the day Canth and I brought you from your crafthold to Impress young Wirenth.”

“F’nor, you’re as bad as F’lar,” Lessa exclaimed, somewhat testily. “You never forget a dragon’s name, but his rider’s?”

“How fares Wirenth, Brekke?” F’nor asked, ignoring Lessa’s interruption.

The girl looked startled but managed a hesitant smile, then pointedly looked towards Manora, trying to turn attention from herself. She was a shade too thin for F’nor’s tastes, not much taller than Lessa whose diminutive size in no way lessened the authority and respect she commanded. There was, however, a sweetness about Brekke’s solemn face, unexpectedly framed with dark curly hair, that F’nor did find appealing. And he liked her self-effacing modesty. He was wondering how she got along with Kylara, the tempestuous and irresponsible senior Weyrwoman at Southern Weyr, when Lessa tapped the empty pot before her.

“Look at this, F’nor. The lining has cracked and the entire kettle of numbweed salve is discolored.”

F’nor whistled appreciatively.

“Would you know what it is the Smith uses to coat the metal?” Manora asked. “I wouldn’t dare use tainted salve, and yet I hate to discard so much if there’s no reason.”

F’nor tipped the pot to the light. The dull tan lining was seamed by fine cracks along one side.

“See what it does to the salve?” and Lessa thrust a small bowl at him.

The anesthetic ointment, normally a creamy, pale yellow, had turned a reddish tan. Rather a threatening color, F’nor thought. He smelled it, dipped his finger in and felt the skin immediately deaden.

“It works,” he said with a shrug.

“Yes, but what would happen to an open Threadscore with that foreign substance cooked into the salve?” asked Manora.

“Good point. What does F’lar say?”

“Oh, him.” Lessa screwed her fine delicate features into a grimace. “He’s off to Lemos Hold to see how that woodcraftsman of Lord Asgenar’s is doing with the wood pulp leaves.”

F’nor grinned. “Never around when you want him, huh, Lessa?”

She opened her mouth for a stinging reply, her gray eyes snapping, and then realized that F’nor was teasing.