He should pick the Telgar Weyr blue on the grounds that he appeared first. However, the green dragon came from Fort Weyr, to whom his Craft was weyrbound. Yet Benden Weyr did the honor of sending a bronze. Perhaps I should take the first to land, though they’re all taking their time about it, he thought.

He stepped out of the Court quadrangle to the fields beyond, since it was obvious that’s where the beasts were landing.

The bronze landed last, which canceled that method of impartial choice. The three riders met mid-field, some few dragonlengths from the disputed passenger. Each man began arguing his claim at once. When the bronze rider became the target of the other two, Robinton felt obliged to intervene.

“He’s weyrbound to Fort Weyr. We have the right,” said the green rider indignantly.

“He’s guest of Telgar Hold. Lord Holder Larad himself requested…”

The bronze rider (Robinton recognized him as N’ton, one of the first non-weyrbred to Impress a dragon at Benden Weyr Turns ago) appeared neither angry nor disconcerted.

“The good Masterharper will know the right of it,” and N’ton bowed graciously to Robinton.

The others gave him scarcely a glance but renewed their quarrel.

“Why, there’s no problem at all,” Robinton said in the firm, decisive tone he rarely employed and which was never contradicted.

The two wranglers fell silent and faced him, the one sullen, the other indignant.

“Still, it does the Craft honor that you vie to serve it,” and Robinton accorded the two dissidents an ironic bow. “Fortunately, I have need of three beasts. I’ve four more harpers to transport to Telgar Hold to grace the happy occasion.” He emphasized the adjective, noticing the glares that passed between blue and green riders. Young N’ton, though not weyrbred, had excellent manners.

“I was told to take you,” the Fort Weyr man said in a sour voice.

“And took such joy of the assignment, it has made my morning merry,” Robinton replied crisply. He saw the smug look on the blue rider’s face. “And while I appreciate Weyrleader R’mart’s thoughtfulness in spite of his recent—ah—problems at Telgar Hold, I shall ride the Benden Weyr dragon. For they do not grudge the Masterharper the prerogative.”

His craftsmen came racing out of the Hall, riding cloaks askew on their shoulders, fitting their instruments in felt wrappings as they came. Robinton gave each a cursory glance as they came to a ragged line in front of him, breathless, flushed and, thank the Shell, happy. He nodded toward Sebell’s pants, indicated that Talmor should adjust his twisted belt, approved Brudegan’s immaculate appearance, and murmured that Tagetarl was to smooth his wild hair.

“We’re ready, sirs,” Robinton announced and, giving a curt bow of his head to the other riders, turned on his heel to follow N’ton.

“I’ve half a mind—” the green rider began.