Robinton grimaced at his reflection. “Belt knives!” He smoothed his hair behind his ears, then stepped back to check the pants. Mastertanner Belesdan had surpassed himself. The fellis dye had turned the soft wherhide into a deep green the same shade as the tunic. The boots were a shade darker. They fit snug to his calf and foot.

Green! Robinton grinned to himself. Neither Zurg nor Belesdan had been in favor of that shade, though it was easily obtainable. About time we shed another ridiculous superstition, Robinton thought.

He glanced out of his window, checking the sun’s position. It was above the Fort range now. That meant midafternoon at Telgar Hold and the guests would be gathering. He’d been promised transport. T’ron of Fort Weyr had grudgingly acceded to that request, though it was a tradition of long standing that the Harper could request aid from any Weyr.

A dragon appeared in the northwest sky.

Robinton grabbed up his overcloak—the dress tunic would never keep out the full cold of between—his gloves and felted case that contained the best gitar. He’d hesitated about bringing it. Chad had a fine instrument at Telgar Hold, but fine wood and gut would not be chilled by those cold seconds of between as mere flesh would.

When he passed the window, he noticed a second dragon winging down, and was mildly surprised.

By the time he reached the small court of the Harpercraft Hall, he gave a snort of amusement. A third dragon had appeared from due east.

Never around when you want ’em, though. Robinton sighed, for it seemed the problems of the day had already begun, instead of waiting dutifully for him (as what trouble does?) at Telgar Hold, where he’d expected it.

Green, blue—and ah-ha—bronze dragon wings in the early morning sun.

“Sebell, Talmor, Brudegan, Tagetarl, into your fine rags. Hurry or I’ll skin you and use your lazy innards for strings,” Robinton called in a voice that projected into every room facing the Court.

Two heads popped out of an upper window of the apprentice barracks, two more at the journeyman’s Hold.

“Aye, sir.” “Coming, sir.” “In a moment!”

Yes, with four harpers of his own, and the three at Telgar Hold—Sebell played the best bass line, not to mention Chad the Telgar harper improvising in the treble—they’d have a grand loud group. Robinton tossed his overcloak to his shoulder, forgetting that the pile of the green tunic might crush, and grinned sardonically at the wheeling dragons. He half-expected them all to wink out again at the discovery of this multiplicity.