He took a slow deep breath to control the frustrated anger he felt. “I have to concede that it is possible a green can go into heat without warning under those conditions.” Beside him, T’bor cursed under his breath. “But for exactly that reason, T’reb ought to have known to keep his green in the Weyr.”
“But T’reb’s a Fort Weyr rider,” T’bor began heatedly, jumping to his feet. “And I’ve been told often enough that . . .”
“You’re out of order, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud voice, glaring at F’lar, not T’bor. “Can’t you control your riders, F’lar?”
“That is quite enough, T’ron,” D’ram cried, on his feet.
As the two Oldtimers locked glances, F’lar murmured urgently to T’bor, “Can’t you see he’s trying to anger us? Don’t lose control!”
“We’re trying to settle the incident, T’ron,” D’ram continued forcefully, “not complicate it with irrelevant personalities. Since you are involved in this business, perhaps I’d better conduct the meeting. With your permission, of course, Fort.”
To F’lar’s mind, that was a tacit admission that D’ram realized, however he might try to evade it, how serious the incident was. The Istan Weyrleader turned to F’lar, his brown eyes dark with concern. F’lar entertained a half hope that D’ram might have seen through T’ron’s obstructiveness, but the Oldtimer’s next words disabused him. “I do not agree with you, F’lar, that the Crafter acted in good part. No let me finish. We came to the aid of your troubled time, expecting to be recompensed and supported in proper fashion, but the manner and the amount of tithing rendered the Weyrs from Hold and Craft has left much to be desired. Pern is much more productive than it was four Hundred Turns ago and yet that wealth has not been reflected in the tithes. There is four times the population of our Time and much, much more cultivated land. A heavy responsibility for the Weyrs. And – ” he cut himself off with a rueful laugh. “I’m digressing, too. Suffice it to say that once it was obvious a dragonrider found the knife to his liking, Terry should have gifted it him. As craftsmen used to, without any question or hesitation.
“Then,” D’ram’s face brightened slightly, “T’reb and B’naj would have left before the green went into full heat, your F’nor would not have become involved in a disgraceful public brawl. Yes, it is all too plain,” and D’ram straightened his shoulders from the burden of decision, “that the first error of judgment was on the part of the craftsman.” He looked at each man, as if none of them had control over what a craftsman might do. T’bor refused to meet his eyes and ground a bootheel noisily into the stone floor.
D’ram took another deep breath. Was he, F’lar wondered bitterly, having trouble digesting that verdict?
“We cannot, of course, permit a repetition of a green in mating heat outside her weyr. Or Dragonriders in an armed duel . . .”
“There wasn’t any duel!” The words seemed to explode from T’bor. “T’reb attacked F’nor without warning and sliced him up. F’nor never even drew his knife. That’s no duel. That’s an unwarranted attack . . .”
“A man whose green is in heat is unaccountable for his actions,” T’ron said, loud enough to drown T’bor out.
“A green who never should have been out of her weyr in the first place no matter how you dance around the truth, T’ron,” T’bor said, savage with frustration. “The first error in judgment was T’reb’s. Not Terry’s.”
“Silence!” D’ram’s bellow silenced him and Loranth answered irritably from her weyr.
“That does it,” T’ron exclaimed, rising. “I’m not having my senior queen upset. You’ve had your meeting, Benden, and your – your grievance has been aired. This meeting is adjourned.”
“Adjourned?” G’narish echoed him in surprise. “But – but nothing’s been done.” The Igen Weyrleader looked from D’ram to T’ron puzzled, worried. “And F’lar’s rider was wounded. If the attack was . . .”
“How badly wounded is the man?” D’ram asked, turning quickly to F’lar.
“Now you ask!” cried T’bor.
“Fortunately,” and F’lar held T’bor’s angry eyes in a stern, warning glance before turning to D’ram to answer, “the wound is not serious. He will not lose the use of the arm.”
G’narish sucked his breath in with a whistle. “I thought he’d only been scratched. I think we . . .”
“When a rider’s dragon is lustful – ” D’ram began, but broke off when he caught sight of the naked fury on T’bor’s face, the set look on F’lar’s. “A dragonrider can never forget his purpose, his responsibility, to his dragon or to his Weyr. This can’t happen again. You’ll speak to T’reb, of course, T’ron?”
T’ron’s eyes widened slightly at D’ram’s question.
“Speak to him? You may be sure he’ll hear from me about this. And B’naj, too.”
“Good,” said D’ram, with the air of a man who has solved a difficult problem equitably. He nodded toward the others. “It would be wise if we Weyrleaders caution all our riders against the possibility of a repetition. Put them all on their guard. Agreed?” He continued nodding, as if to spare the others the effort. “It is hard enough to work with some of these arrogant Holders and Crafters without giving them any occasion to fault us.” D’ram sighed deeply and scratched his head. I never have understood how commoners can forget how much they owe Dragonriders!”
“In four hundred Turns, a man can learn many new things,” F’lar replied. “Coming, T’bor?” and his tone was just short of command. “My greetings to your Weyrwomen, riders. Good night.”
He strode from the Council Room, T’bor pounding right behind him, swearing savagely until they got to the outer passageway to the Weyr ledge.
“That old fool was in the wrong, F’lar, and you know it!”
“Obviously.”
“Then why didn’t you . . .”
“Rub his nose in it?” F’lar finished, halting in mid-stride and turning to T’bor in the dark of the passageway.
“Dragonriders don’t fight. Particularly Weyrleaders.”
T’bor let out a violent exclamation of utter disgust.
“How could you let a chance like that go by? When I think of the times he’s criticized you – us – ” T’bor broke off. “Never understand how commoners can forget all they owe Dragonriders?” and T’bor mimicked D’ram’s pompous intonation, “If they really want to know . . .”
F’lar gripped T’bor by the shoulder, appreciating the younger man’s sentiments all too deeply.
“How can you tell a man what he doesn’t want to hear? We couldn’t even get them to admit that T’reb was in the wrong T’reb, not Terry, and not F’nor. But I don’t think there’ll be another lapse like today’s and that’s what I really worried about.”
“What?” T’bor stared at F’lar in puzzled confusion.
“That such an incident could occur worries me far more than who was in the wrong and for what reason.”
“I can’t follow that logic any more than I can follow T’ron’s.”
“It’s simple. Dragonmen don’t fight. Weyrleaders can’t. T’ron was hoping I’d be mad enough to lose control. I think he was hoping I’d attack him.”
“You can’t be serious!” T’bor was plainly shaken.
“Remember, T’ron considers himself the senior Weyrleader on Pern and therefore infallible.”
T’bor made a rude noise. Despite himself, F’lar grinned.
“True,” he continued, “but I’ve never had a reason to challenge him. And don’t forget, the Oldtimers taught us a great deal about Thread fighting we certainly didn’t know.”
“Why, our dragons can fight circles around the Oldtimers.”
“That’s not the point, T’bor. You and I, the modern Weyrs have certain obvious advantages over the Oldtimers – size of dragons, number of queens – that I’m not interested in mentioning because it only makes for bad feeling. Nevertheless, we can’t fight Thread without the Oldtimers. We need the Oldtimers more than they need us.” F’lar gave T’bor a wry, bitter grin. “D’ram was partly right. A dragonman can never forget his purpose, his responsibility. When D’ram said ‘to his dragon, to his Weyr’, he’s wrong. Our initial and ultimate responsibility is to Pern, to the people we were established to protect.”