“One never knows just what is taught at Benden Weyr,” T’reb said with thinly veiled contempt.

“Manners, among other things, when addressing Wing-seconds,” F’nor replied, still pleasant. But T’reb gave him a sharp look, aware of a subtle difference in his manner. “Good Master Terry, may I have a word with Fandarel?”

“He’s in his study…”

“And you told us he was not about,” T’reb interrupted, grabbing Terry by the front of his heavy wher-hide apron.

F’nor reacted instantly. His brown hand snapped about T’reb’s wrist, his fingers digging into the tendons so painfully that the green rider’s hand was temporarily numbed.

Released, Terry stood back, his eyes blazing, his jaw set.

“Fort Weyr manners leave much to be desired,” F’nor said, his teeth showing in a smile as hard as the grip with which he held T’reb. But now the other Fort Weyr rider intervened.

“T’reb! F’nor!” B’naj thrust the two apart. “His green’s proddy, F’nor. He can’t help it.”

“Then he should stay weyrbound.”

“Benden doesn’t advise Fort,” T’reb cried, trying to step past his Weyrmate, his hand on his belt knife.

F’nor stepped back, forcing himself to cool down. The whole episode was ridiculous. Dragonriders did not quarrel in public. No one should use a Craftmaster’s second in such a fashion. Outside, dragons bellowed.

Ignoring T’reb, F’nor said to B’naj, “You’d better get out of here. She’s too close to mating.”

But the truculent T’reb would not be silenced.

“Don’t tell me how to manage my dragon, you…”

The insult was lost in a second volley from the dragons to which Canth now added his warble.

“Don’t be a fool, T’reb,” B’naj said. “Come! Now!”

“I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t wanted that knife. Get it and come.”

The knife B’naj had been handling lay on the floor by Terry’s foot. The Craftsman retrieved it in such a way that F’nor suddenly realized why there had been such tension in the Hall. The dragonriders had been about to confiscate the knife, an action his entrance had forestalled. He’d heard too much lately of such extortions.

“You’d better go,” he told the dragonriders, stepping in front of Terry.

“We came for the knife. We’ll leave with it,” T’reb shouted and, feinting with unexpected speed, ducked past F’nor, grabbing the knife from Terry’s hand, slicing the smith’s thumb as he drew the blade.

Again F’nor caught T’reb’s hand and twisted it, forcing him to drop the knife.

T’reb gave a gurgling cry of rage and, before F’nor could duck or B’naj could intervene, the infuriated green rider had plunged his own belt knife into F’nor’s shoulder, viciously slicing downward until the point hit the shoulder bone.