“Let Lord Oterel of Tillek or that idiot Lord Sangel of Boll start disputing my orders and I’ll fire their forests myself,” said T’ron, rising.

“Then we’re agreed,” said F’lar quickly, before the hypocrisy he was practicing overcame him with disgust. “We mount watches, aided by the holders, and we keep track of the new shift. We’ll soon know how to judge it.”

“What of T’kul?” G’narish asked.

D’ram looked squarely at T’ron. “We’ll explain the situation to him.”

“He respects you two,” F’lar agreed. “It might be wiser, though, not to suggest we knew about…”

“We can handle T’kul, without your advice, F’lar,” D’ram cut him off abruptly, and F’lar knew that the momentary harmony between them was at an end. The Oldtimers were closing ranks against the crime of their contemporary, just as they had at that abortive meeting a few nights ago. He could console himself with the fact that they hadn’t been able to escape all the implications of this incident.

Lessa came back into the weyr just then, her face flushed, her eyes exceedingly bright. Even D’ram bowed low to her in making his farewells.

“Don’t leave, D’ram, T’ron. I’ve good word from Telgar Weyr,” she cried, but catching F’lar’s glance, did not try to keep them when they demurred.

“R’mart’s all right?” G’narish asked, trying to smooth over the awkwardness.

Lessa recovered herself with a smile for the Igen leader.

“Oh that messenger—he’s only a boy—he exaggerated. Ramoth bespoke Solth, the senior queen at Telgar Weyr. R’mart is badly scored, yes. Bedella evidently overdosed him with numbweed powder. She hadn’t the wit to send word to anyone. And the Wing-second assumed that we’d all been informed because he’d heard R’mart telling Bedella to send messengers, never dreaming she hadn’t. When R’mart passed out, she forgot everything.” Lessa’s shrug indicated her low opinion of Bedella. “The Wing-second says he’d be grateful for your advice.”

“H’ages is Wing-second at Telgar Weyr,” G’narish said. “A sound enough rider but he’s got no initiative. Say, you’re Thread-bared yourself, F’lar.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s bleeding,” Lessa contradicted. “And you haven’t eaten a thing.”

“I’ll stop at Telgar Weyr, F’lar, and talk to H’ages,” G’narish said.

“I’d like to come with you, G’narish, if you’ve no objections…”