“T’bor is Weyrleader at the High Reaches with Kylara as Weyrwoman…”

“Kylara at High Reaches?” F’nor looked dubious but F’lar waved aside his half-born protest.

“Yes, there are disadvantages to that, of course. All but fourteen of the folk at High Reaches Weyr went with T’kul and Merika. Most of the Fort Weyr people wanted to stay…”

F’nor chuckled nastily. “Bet that was hard for Mardra to swallow.” He looked expectantly at Lessa, knowing how often his Weyrwoman had mastered resentment and indignation at Mardra’s hands. Lessa returned his gaze with polite unconcern.

“So P’zar is acting Weyrleader until a queen rises…”

“Any chance of making that an open flight for any bronze?”

“That is my intention,” F’lar replied. “However, I think the biggest of the modern bronzes had better be conspicuous by their absence.”

“Then why have you assigned N’ton there as Wing-second?” demanded Lessa in surprise.

F’lar grinned at his Weyrmate. “Because by the time a Fort queen rises in flight, N’ton will be known and well-liked by the Fort Weyrfolk and they won’t mind. He’ll be considered a Fort rider, not a Benden replacement.”

Lessa wrinkled her nose. “He doesn’t have much choice at Fort Weyr.”

“He is quite capable of taking care of himself,” F’lar replied with a wicked grin.

“Well, you seem to have arranged everything to your satisfaction,” F’nor remarked. “I, however, resent having been yanked out of Southern. I’d spotted a very promising clutch of fire-lizard eggs in a certain Southern cove. Not quite hard enough to move with impunity. If you had held off a few more days, I’d—” He broke off, sliding into the chair Lessa motioned him to. “Say, F’lar, what’s the matter with you? You been time-betweening or something?”

“No, he’s been knifed between his top and bottom,” Lessa answered with a sour glance at her Weyrmate. “And it is with exceptional difficulty that I can keep him in a chair. He belongs in a bed.”

F’lar waved her recriminations aside good-humoredly.

“If you’re—” F’nor half-rose, his face concerned.

“If you’re—” mocked F’lar, his look indicating a growing irritation with his disability and their protectiveness.

F’nor laughed, reseating himself. “And Brekke said I was a cantankerous patient. Ha! How bad is it? I heard various tales about that duel, well embroidered already, but not that you’d been clipped. Must it always be belt knives—for our Blood? And the other man armed with a wherry-skewer?”

“And dressed in wherhide,” Lessa added.

“Look, F’lar, Brekke has pronounced me fit to fly between,” and F’nor flexed his arm, fully but carefully. “I can appreciate your wanting to keep quiet about your injury, so I’ll do all your popping about.”