The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [137]
“D’ram follows tradition, Benden,” T’ron cut in. “Weyrbred is best for dragonkind. Particularly for greens.”
“Oh?” T’bor glared with malicious intent at T’ron.
D’ram cleared his throat hastily and said in a too loud voice, “As it happens, we’ve a good group of likely boys in our Lower Caverns. The last Impression at G’narish’s Weyr left him with a few he has offered to place at Ista Weyr. So I thank you kindly, F’lar. Generous indeed when you’ve eggs hardening at Benden too. And a queen, I hear?”
D’ram exhibited no trace of envy for another queen egg at Benden Weyr. And Fauna’s Mirath hadn’t produced a single golden egg since she’d come time between.
“We all know Benden’s generosity,” T’ron said in a sneering tone, his eyes flicking around the room, everywhere but at F’lar. “He extends help everywhere. And interferes when it isn’t needed.”
“I don’t call what happened at the Smithhall interference,” D’ram said, his face assuming grave lines.
“I thought we were going to wait for T’kul and R’mart,” G’narish said, glancing anxiously up the passageway.
So, F’lar mused, D’ram and G’narish are upset by today’s events.
“T’kul’s better known for the meetings he misses than the ones he attends,” T’bor remarked.
“R’mart always comes,” G’narish said.
“Well, they’re neither of them here. And I’m not waiting on their pleasure any longer,” T’ron announced, rising.
“Then you’d better call in B’naj and T’reb,” D’ram suggested with a heavy sigh.
“They’re in no condition to attend a meeting.” T’ron seemed surprised at D’ram’s request. “Their dragons only returned from flight at sunset.”
D’ram stared at T’ron. “Then why did you call the meeting for tonight?”
“At F’lar’s insistence.”
T’bor rose to protest before F’lar could stop him, but D’ram waved him to be seated and sternly reminded T’ron that the Fort Weyrleader had set the time, not F’lar of Benden.
“Look, we’re here now,” T’bor said, banging his fist on the table irritably. “Let’s get on with it. It’s full night in Southern Weyr. I’d like . . .”
“I conduct the Fort Weyr meetings, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud, firm voice, although the effort of keeping his temper told in the flush of his face and the brightness of his eyes.
“Then conduct it,” T’bor replied. “Tell us why a green rider took his dragon out of your Weyr when she was close to heat.”
“T’reb was not aware she was that close . . .”
“Nonsense,” T’bor cut in, glaring at T’ron. “You keep telling us how much of a traditionalist you are, and how well trained your riders are. Then don’t tell me a rider as old as T’reb can’t estimate his beast’s condition.”
F’lar began to think he didn’t need an ally like T’bor.
“A green changes color rather noticeably,” G’narish said, with some reluctance, F’lar noted. “Usually a full day before she wants to fly.”
“Not in the spring,” T’ron pointed out quickly. “Not when she’s off her feed from Threadscore. It can happen very quickly. Which it did.” T’ron spoke loudly, as if the volume of his explanation would bear more weight than its logic.
“That is possible,” D’ram admitted slowly, nodding his head up and down before he turned to see what F’lar thought.
“I accept that possibility,” F’lar replied, keeping his voice even. He saw T’bor open his mouth to protest and kicked the man under the table. “However, according to the testimony of Craftmaster Terry, my rider urged T’reb repeatedly to take his dragon away. T’reb persisted in his attempt to—to acquire the belt knife.”
“And you accept the word of a commoner against a rider?” T’ron leaped on F’lar’s statement with a great show of surprised indignation and incredulity.
“What would a