Fire-lizards? How was Meron going to use a fire-lizard? Unless it was because Kylara, a Weyrwoman, had given him one. Yes. That was guaranteed to sow dissension. Undoubtedly every Lord Holder here would want one, so as to be equal to Meron. There couldn’t be enough eggs to go around. Meron would capitalize on forgotten yearnings, and chalk up one more irritation against dragonmen.

Robinton found that the meatrolls sat heavily in his stomach. Suddenly Brudegan detached himself from the crowd, bowing with a rueful grin to those he’d been serenading as if he were reluctantly answering his Master’s summons.

“The undercurrent is something fierce,” the journeyman said, pretending to tune his instrument. “Everyone’s so determined to have a good time. Odd, too. It’s not what they say, but how they say it that tips you off.” The boy flushed as Robinton nodded approvingly. “For instance, they refer to ‘that Weyrleader’ meaning their own weyrbound leader. ‘The Weyrleader’ always means F’lar of Benden. ‘The Weyrleader’ had understood. ‘The Weyrleader’ had tried. ‘She’ means Lessa. ‘Her’ means their own Weyrwoman. Interesting?”

“Fascinating. What’s the feeling about Threadfall?”

Brudegan bent his head to the gitar, twanged strings discordantly. He drew his hand across all eight in a dissonant chord that ran a chill down the Masterharper’s spine. Then Brudegan turned away with a gay song.

Robinton wished that F’lar and Lessa would arrive. He did see D’ram of Ista Weyr talking earnestly to Igen’s Weyrleader, G’narish. He liked that pair best of the Oldtimers, G’narish being young enough to change and D’ram essentially too honest to deny a truth when his nose was in it. Trouble was, he kept his nose inside Ista Weyr too much.

Neither man looked at ease, as much because there was an island of empty space around them—an obvious ostracization with the Court so crowded—as anything else. They greeted Robinton with grave relief.

“Such a happy occasion,” he said and, when they reacted with surprise, he hurried on. “Have you heard from F’lar?”

“Should we? There’s been more Thread?” G’narish asked, alarmed.

“Not that I know of.”

“Have you seen T’ron or T’kul about? We just arrived.”

“No, in fact, none of the western people seem to be here except Lord Warder Lytol of Ruatha.”

D’ram clenched his teeth with an audible snap.

“R’mart of Telgar can’t come,” the Oldtimer said. “He took a bad scoring.”

“I’d heard it was wicked at Crom Hold,” Robinton murmured, sympathetically. “No way to predict it’d fall there at that time, either.”

“I see Lord Nessel of Crom and his holders are here in strength, though,” D’ram said, his voice bitter.

“He could scarcely stay away without insulting Lord Larad. How bad were the Telgar Weyr’s casualties? And if R’mart’s out of action, who’s leading?”