And if his suspicions were valid, what could he do? Write a scolding song? A satire? Robinton snorted. Lord Groghe was too literal a man to interpret satire and too righteous to take a scold. Furthermore, and Robinton pushed himself upright on his elbows, if Lord Groghe was neglectful, it was in protest at Weyr neglect of far greater magnitude. Robinton shuddered to think of Thread burrowing in the great stands of softwoods to the south.

He ought to sing his remonstrances to Mardra and T’ron as Weyrleaders—but that, too, would be vain effort. Mardra had soured lately. She ought to have sense enough to retire gracefully to a chair and let men seek her favors if T’ron no longer attracted her. To hear the Hold girls talk, T’ron was lusty enough. In fact, T’ron had better restrain himself. Lord Groghe didn’t take kindly to too many of his chattels bearing dragonseed.

Another impasse, thought Robinton with a wry smile. Hold customs differed so from Weyr morals. Maybe a word to F’lar of Benden Weyr? Useless, again. In the first place there was really nothing the bronze rider could do. Weyrs were autonomous and not only could T’ron take umbrage for any advice F’lar might see fit to offer, but Robinton was sure that F’lar might tend to take the Lord Holders’ side.

This was not the first time in recent months that Robinton regretted that F’lar of Benden Weyr had been so eager to relinquish his leadership after Lessa had gone back between to bring the five lost Weyrs forward in time. For a brief few months then, seven Turns ago, Pern had been united under F’lar and Lessa against the ancient menace of Thread. Every holder, Craftmaster, landsman, crafter, all had been of one mind. That unity had dissipated as the Oldtime Weyrleaders had reasserted their traditional domination over the Holds bound to their Weyr for protection, and a grateful Pern had ceded them those rights. But in four hundred Turns the interpretation of that old hegemony had altered, with neither party sure of the translation.

Perhaps now was the time to remind Lord Holders of those perilous days seven Turns ago when all their hopes hung on fragile dragon wings and the dedication of a scant two hundred men.

Well, the Harper has a duty, too, by the Egg, Robinton thought, needlessly smoothing the wet sand. And the obligation to broadcast it.

In twelve days, Larad, Lord of Telgar, was giving his half-sister, Famira, to Asgenar, Lord of Lemos Hold. The Masterharper had been enjoined to appear with appropriate new songs to enliven the festivities. F’lar and Lessa were invited as Lemos Hold was weyrbound to Benden Weyr. There’d be other notables among Weyr, Lord and Craft to signalize so auspicious an occasion.

“And among my jolly songs, I’ll have stronger meat.”