The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [136]
D’ram of Ista Weyr and G’narish of Igen also contented themselves with nods. T’bor, however, gave F’lar a hearty greeting, his eyes glinting with emotion.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” F’lar said to all. “I apologize for taking you from your own affairs or rest with this request for an emergency meeting of all Weyrleaders, but it could not wait until the regular Solstice Gathering.”
“I’ll conduct the meetings at Fort Weyr, Benden,” T’ron said in a cold harsh voice. “I’ll wait for T’kul and R’mart before I have any discussion of your—your complaint.”
“Agreed.”
T’ron stared at F’lar as if that hadn’t been the answer he’d anticipated and he’d gathered himself for an argument that hadn’t materialized. F’lar nodded to T’bor as he took the seat beside him.
“I’ll say this now, Benden,” T’ron continued. “The next time you elect to drag us all out of our Weyrs suddenly, you apply to me first. Fort’s the oldest Weyr on Pern. Don’t just irresponsibly send messengers out to everyone.”
“I don’t see that F’lar acted irresponsibly,” G’narish said, evidently surprised by T’ron’s attitude. G’narish was a stocky young man, some Turns F’lar’s junior and the youngest of the Weyrleaders to come forward in time. “Any Weyrleader can call a joint meeting if circumstances warrant it. And these do!” G’narish emphasized this with a curt nod, adding when he saw the Fort Weyrleader scowling at him, “Well, they do.”
“Your rider was the aggressor, T’ron,” D’ram said in a stern voice. He was a rangy man, getting stringy with age, but his astonishing shock of red hair was only lightly grizzled at the temples. “F’lar’s within his rights.”
“You had the choice of time and place, T’ron,” F’lar pointed out, all deference.
T’ron’s scowl deepened.
“Wish Telgar’d get here,” he said in a low, irritated tone.
“Have some wine, F’lar?” T’bor suggested, an almost malicious smile playing on his lips for T’ron ought to have offered immediately. “Of course, it’s not Benden Hold wine, but not bad. Not bad.”
F’lar gave T’bor a long warning look as he took the proffered cup. But the Southern Weyrleader was watching to see how T’ron reacted. Benden Hold did not tithe of its famous wines as generously to the other Weyrs as it did to the one which protected its lands.
“When are we going to taste some of those Southern Weyr wines you’ve been bragging about, T’bor?” G’narish asked, instinctively trying to ease the growing tensions.
“Of course, we’re entering our fall season now,” T’bor said, making it seem that Fort was to blame for the chill outside—and inside—the Weyr. “However, we expect to start pressing soon. We’ll distribute what we can spare to you northerners.”
“What do you mean? What you can spare?” T’ron asked, staring hard at T’bor.
“Well, Southern plays nurse to every wounded dragonrider. We need sufficient on hand to drown their sorrows adequately. Southern Weyr supports itself, you must remember.”
F’lar stepped on T’bor’s booted foot as he turned to D’ram and inquired of the Istan Weyrleader how the last Laying had gone.
“Very well, thanks,” D’ram replied pleasantly, but F’lar knew the older man did not like the mood that was developing. “Fauna’s Mirath laid twenty-five and I’ll warrant we’ve half a dozen bronzes in the clutch.”
“Ista’s bronzes are the fastest on Pern,” F’lar said gravely. When he heard T’bor stirring restlessly beside him, he reached swiftly to Mnementh with a silent “Ask Orth to please tell T’bor to speak with great thought for the consequences. D’ram and G’narish must not be antagonized.” Out loud he said, “A weyr can never have