The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [5]
F’lar did not turn as the rush of air past him announced the arrival of the rest of the wing. He knew, however, when F’nor, the brown rider who was coincidentally his half brother, took the customary position on his left, a dragon length to the rear. From the corner of his eye, F’lar glimpsed F’nor twisting to death with his boot heel the grass that crowded up between the stones.
An order, muffled to an intense whisper, issued from within the great Court, beyond the open gates. Almost immediately a group of men marched into sight, led by a heavy-set man of medium height.
Mnementh arched his neck, angling his head so that his chin rested on the ground. Mnementh’s many-faceted eyes, on a level with F’lar’s head, fastened with disconcerting interest on the approaching party. The dragons could never understand why they generated such abject fear in common folk. At only one point in his life span would a dragon attack a human, and that could be excused on the grounds of simple ignorance. F’lar could not explain to the dragon the politics behind the necessity of inspiring awe in the holders, Lord and craftsman alike. He could only observe that the fear and apprehension showing in the faces of the advancing squad which troubled Mnementh was oddly pleasing to him, F’lar.
“Welcome, bronze rider, to the Hold of Fax, Lord of the High Reaches. He is at your service,” and the man made an adequately respectful salute.
The use of the third person pronoun could be construed by the meticulous to be a veiled insult. This fit in with the information F’lar had on Fax, so he ignored it. His information was also correct in describing Fax as a greedy man. It showed in the restless eyes that flicked at every detail of F’lar’s clothing, at the slight frown when the intricately etched sword hilt was noticed.
F’lar noticed, in his own turn, the several rich rings that flashed on Fax’s left hand. The overlord’s right hand remained slightly cocked after the habit of the professional swordsman. His tunic, of rich fabric, was stained and none too fresh. The man’s feet, in heavy wher-hide boots, were solidly planted, weight balanced forward on his toes. A man to be treated cautiously, F’lar decided, as one should the conqueror of five neighboring Holds. Such greedy audacity was in itself a revelation. Fax had married into a sixth . . . and had legally inherited, however unusual the circumstances, the seventh. He was a lecherous man by reputation. Within these seven Holds, F’lar anticipated a profitable Search. Let R’gul go southerly to pursue Search among the indolent if lovely women there. The Weyr needed a strong woman this time; Jora had been worse than useless with Nemorth. Adversity, uncertainty: those were the conditions that bred the qualities F’lar wanted in a Weyrwoman.
“We ride in Search,” F’lar drawled softly, “and request the hospitality of your Hold, Lord Fax.”
Fax’s eyes widened imperceptibly at mention of a Search.
“I had heard Jora was dead,” Fax replied, dropping the third person abruptly as if F’lar had passed some sort of test by ignoring it. “So Nemorth has laid a queen, hmmm?” he continued, his eyes darting across the rank of the wing, noting the disciplined stance of the riders, the healthy color of the dragons.
F’lar did not dignify the obvious with an answer.
“And, my Lord—” Fax hesitated, expectantly inclining his head slightly toward the dragonman.
For a pulse beat, F’lar wondered if the man was deliberately provoking him with such subtle insults. The name of the bronze