There wasn’t a boy alive on Pern that hadn’t at one time dreamed of suddenly becoming acceptable to dragonkind, of Impressing. Of having at his beck and call (little dreaming it was more the other way round) an immense creature, capable of going anywhere on Pern in a breath, of defeating all enemies with his flame-ridden breath (also fallacious as dragons never flamed anything but Thread and wouldn’t knowingly harm a human). Life at the mountaintop Weyrs assumed a glamor all out of proportion to reality, yet dragonmen were not stooped by the heavy labor of the fields, orchards and craft benches; they were straight and tall, dressed in beautifully tanned wherhides, and seemed somehow superior. Very few boys could become Lord Holders, unless they were properly Blooded. But there was always that tantalizing possibility that a dragonrider might choose you to go to the Weyr for an Impression. So generations of boys had vainly tried to catch a fire-lizard, symbolic of that other yearning.

And a “regular miniature dragon” in the possession of a sly-faced underhanded malcontent like Meron of Nabol, who was sour about dragonmen anyway (with some justification in the matter of the Esvay valley against T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr), could be an embarrassment for F’lar at the least, and might disrupt their plans for the day at the worst.

“Well, if Kylara brought the fire-lizard eggs to Nabol Hold, F’lar will know,” Robinton told the worried Lord Warder. “They keep pretty close tabs on that woman.”

Lytol’s glower deepened. “I hope so. Meron of Nabol will certainly let no chance pass to irritate or embarrass F’lar. Have you seen F’lar?”

They both glanced around, hopefully. Then Robinton caught sight of a familiar grizzled head, bobbing toward himself and the Warder.

“Speaking of Benden, here’s old Lord Raid charging down on us. I’ve an idea what he wants and I will not sing that ancient lay about the holders one more time. Excuse me, Lytol.”

Robinton slipped into the milling guests, working as rapidly away from the Benden Lord Holder as possible. He happened to dislike Lord Raid’s favorite ballad with a passion and, if Raid cornered him, he’d have no choice but to sing it. He felt no compunction about leaving Lytol exposed to Lord Raid’s pompous manner. Lytol enjoyed an unusual status with the Lord Holders. They weren’t certain how to treat a man who’d been a dragonrider, Weaverhallmaster, and was now Lord Warder of a Ruatha prospering under his guidance. He could deal with Raid.

The Masterharper halted at a point where he could look up at the cliff, trying to spot Ramoth or Mnementh among the dragons lining the edge.