"F'lon!" Robinton shouted over the din made by new dragons and riders, and pointed towards this final pairing.
F'lon swivelled about, his mouth dropping open, and caught the moment of Impression.
"His name is Canth!" Famanoran cried, tears of joy marking his face as he patted and stroked his new friend.
"I told you so," Robinton remarked frequently to the exultant Weyrleader father that evening at the feasting. He also had a chance to speak to F'lar and F'nor, for that was how they decided to shorten their names in the dragonrider tradition.
"I don't think F'lon would have forgiven us if we hadn't Impressed," F'lar admitted to the Harper with a rueful grin.
"You had to, F'lar ..." F'nor began, and then added loudly, "It didn't matter that much about me ..."
"Of course it did," Robinton contradicted him immediately.
"Canth is rather large for a brown, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is," F'nor said with soft pride, grinning foolishly.
Robinton located Manora, already busy making sure that food was reaching the various tables and that everyone had a seat. He congratulated her and she smiled almost absently, her eyes darting from one corner of the Lower Cavern to the other, checking on servers and the served.
"Such a good day," she said with quiet satisfaction.
"You must be proud of them."
"I am," she said. With her usual understated dignity she moved off to take a seat by Jora, who had been left more or less to herself at the high table. The Weyrwoman was paying absolutely no attention to anything but clearing the food from the overflowing plate in front of her. Manora ate slowly and with relish, as dignified as she had been as a young girl.
Robinton took advantage of the fine Benden white which was being served. Lord Raid was present, as he should be for a Benden Hatching, and he was quite relaxed and pleasant to Robinton when they exchanged greetings and remarked on F'lon's double joy.
When he got back to the Hall, Nip had been there and left him a message.
"And what do you bet me that Nabol will fall to him next?"
That was one bet that Robinton would never have taken. Even a Bitran would have passed it up.
Perhaps that acquisition was another reason why Tarathel scheduled an ambitious Gather, inviting everyone, including Fax.
Vendross, Tarathel's invaluable guard captain, had flushed out a large group of Fax's men in the foothills of Telgar where such a party should not have been. Since he was commanding a much larger patrol, he had the advantage. Their excuse that they had had to detour from winter-damaged tracks to get back to the High Reaches was not well received by Vendross who escorted them as fast as possible back to the main Crom road. Tarathel was determined to have a few private words with this self-styled Lord of Five Holds to ensure Fax did not try to encroach on Telgar lands.
Nip was as surprised as Robinton that Fax accepted.
"As you can see, I maintain several fully trained companies of guards, Master Robinton," Tarathel told Robinton and F'lon who had arrived early in the Gather morning. Indeed, the Hold and its grounds seemed to be swarming with men in Telgar liveries.
F'lon nodded approvingly. "The man has got to be stopped, Tarathel."
The Telgar Holder scowled, unused to such familiarity from a much younger man, even if a Weyrleader was equal in rank to a
Lord holder Robinton nudged the bronze rider in the ribs, hoping to jar him into more discretion. F'lon ignored the hint.
"And it's up to you Lord Holders to set him right. When Thread comes, he'll be unable to provide adequate help to the holds he's taken over."
Tarathel raised the black and bushy eyebrows which gave him such a formidable appearance. "Really, Weyrleader? I had no idea the return was so imminent. May I ask what Benden Weyr will be able to do to provide adequate help to us?"
F'lon stiffened and Robinton kept his expression bland with an effort. As far as the MasterHarper knew, this was the first time a Lord Holder had openly challenged the Weyr. Clearly F'lon didn't like it one bit.
"Benden Weyr will be ready to meet Thread when it comes, Lord Tarathel. On that you can rely," he said with such dignity and purpose that Tarathel nodded approval.
"When it comes," he murmured as he moved off to greet the next wave of guests arriving by dragon.
"Look, F'lon, I've been your ffiend since we were boys," Robinton said, drawing the dragonrider to one side for privacy, "but you've as much tact as a tunnel snake. It doesn't do the Weyr, or you, any good to antagonize all the Lord Holders."
"I don't, but Tarathel's as hide-bound as Raid, and that's saying a lot."
"Tarathel will be long dead before Thread comes. Were I you, I'd start right now getting young Larad on your side. Unless, of course,
Fax decides to duel with him and remove competition." "Humph!"
Robinton was relieved to note that F'lon did not dismiss that suggestion out of hand. In fact, the bronze rider made a point of seeking out the lad who, like any male his age, was gratified to be in a Weyrleader's company.
What happened later that afternoon was so grotesque that afterwards Robinton cursed himself, plagued with a sense of guilt that his idle remark could have had such devastating consequences.
He saw the beginning: a lad wearing Fax's colours knocking into Larad, at F'lon's side, and then irritably demanding an apology.
Larad was surprised and started to comply, but F'lon stopped him.
"You knocked into Larad, boy," F'lon told the lad. "You will apologize to young Lord Larad. He ranks you."
"I'm with Lord Fax, Dragonrider." The boy's tone and sneer were contemptuous.
Robinton had not yet reached the little group when F'lon backhanded the boy, cutting his lip.
"You will keep a civil tongue in your head and you will apologize to Lord Larad, who is of Telgar Blood. I doubt you can claim even half-Blood rights."
"Kepiru? Who gave you a bloody lip?" And a heavyset man, also wearing Fax's colours and the shoulder knot of a captain – though generally those were reserved for ships' captains – pushed through those watching the encounter.
Robinton felt the tension in the air as he reached F'lon. "Now, what appears to be the problem?" he said in his best conciliatory manner.
Larad gratefully turned to the MasterHarper. He was confused and highly embarrassed.
"That... dragonrider' – the captain's tone was as contemptuous as Kepiru's had been – "has struck my young brother, insulting our Blood. The matter requires redress."
"Redress from your brother to Lord Larad most certainly," F'lon said, bristling.
Robinton caught F'lon by the arm, pressing it hard to cool him down. He was beginning to fear that this trivial incident had been contrived. The underfed lad looked no more like a brother to the captain than Larad did.
"That's right. I observed the whole thing as I came," the harper said, smiling pleasantly. "An accident." He leaned heavily on that word, pulling at F'lon even as he felt the tension and anger building in the dragonrider's body. "This is a Gather, a meeting of folk in good faith and for pleasant purposes." He smiled winningly at the two in Fax's colours, but they were having no more of his mediation than F'lon was.
Then, to emphasize F'lon's indignation, Simanith rose from his perch on the heights and spread his wings, bugling.
"Larad requires an apology," F'lon insisted. "That lout deliberately knocked into him."
"This is a Gather, F'lon," Robinton said urgently, scanning the growing crowd for anyone he could call upon for assistance.
Looking beyond to see if he could spot Lord Tarathel near by, he was relieved to catch a glimpse of Nip and jerked his head. He saw Nip raise a hand in reply and dash off. "Accidents can occur when folk are sometimes less careful in this relaxed atmosphere."
"Enough," F'lon said, shaking off Robinton's restraining hand.
"It was as deliberate as the slurs on dragonriders."
"Ha! Dragonwomen!" the captain said in a scathing tone.
The captain's knife seemed to appear in his hand with uncanny speed and Robinton's fears increased. He made another attempt to gain control of the situation.
"This is a Gather," he repeated, stepping between the two men who had eyes for no one but each other.
"Out of the way, Harper," the captain snarled. "Your colour doesn't protect you or him."
The crowd had backed away the moment the flash of steel was seen and formed a circle around the five. The next moment, Kepiru barged out of the way and disappeared from sight.
"Move off, Robinton. This is not your fight," said F'lon, crouching as he shoved Robinton out of the way.
"Wait! The Lord Holder has been summoned!"
"Then let him watch the Weyrleader die!" the captain cried, a wild smile on his face. Crouching, he stepped sideways, not towards the dragonrider but close enough to Robinton so that when he moved, it was the MasterHarper his blade scored. Robinton clutched at his arm, blood oozing out of the long gash.
F'lon let out an inarticulate cry of rage and rushed the captain.
"I'll see he regrets that, Rob!"
"Harpers, dragonwomen, much the same cowardly clutch."
"Keep your head," Robinton called to F'lon. He was too alarmed to feel pain and was grateful when someone wrapped a kerchief around the bleeding wound.
Simanith continued to bugle, and the other dragons picked up the challenge at the top of their lungs. If this didn't bring the other riders to help, surely the calls would alert the Lord Holder and he would be able to stop the fight before more blood was shed.
Perhaps that was why the captain surged forward, determined to finish before he could be interrupted. He was fast, he was clever with the blade, and he was determined. F'lon was equally quick on his feet, but he was livid with anger at the attack on the MasterHarper.
The captain drew first blood, slicing F'lon across the midriff through the loose shirt, causing a hiss of surprise and pain to escape F'lon's lips. At that F'lon lost all caution, rushing in to grapple his opponent's knife hand, trying to sink his blade in wherever he could. But the captain was stronger and far cooler.
F'lon was accustomed to fair fighting and opponents who would not risk the life of a dragonrider. The captain had no such inhibitions, and displayed a knowledge of tricks which had probably brought him victory in other brawls. He was also heavier and, letting fly a kick which had the crowd gasping out "foul play', he unbalanced F'lon and flung him breathless to the dirt. Diving on the prone dragonrider, he brought his knife up under F'lon's guard and into his ribs.
F'lon gave one massive jerk and died.
Simanith let out a hideous shriek of anguish and pain, launching between before the last breath of life left his rider. Robinton was rocked to his soul by that sound and the death of his friend.
An awful silence fell over the Gather. Even those far from the scene and ignorant of what had just happened were stunned by the dragon's cry and his disappearance. Then the keening of the other dragons informed the entire Gather that a dragonrider had died.
"Seize him," Robinton said, pointing to the captain before he, too, could slip away as Kepiru had done.
He knelt by F'lon, whose amber eyes were wide open in surprise, their light already fading. Robinton closed them and bowed his head, reeling emotionally and physically from the hideous end to a stupid, senseless encounter.
"I would have apologized," a small, scared voice said beside him.
Robinton lifted his head and put his hand on Larad's shoulder.
"No, Larad, you were not at fault."
"But he's dead," Larad said, his voice breaking. "A dragonrider's dead!"
"What this? What... Shards!" Lord Tarathel broke through the crowd and stumbled into the dusty circle. Larad ran to his father, burying his head against him and weeping.
"It was no accident, Lord Tarathel," Robinton said quietly and for the Holder's ears only. "No accident."
The captain was struggling with those who were quite glad to hold him, and less than gently. If no one had wanted to interfere in a dagger duel, no one had wanted the death of a dragonrider – nor the ear-splitting sounds of the grieving dragons.
R'gul and S'lel, with C'gan right behind them, arrived, their faces anguished. Seeing F'lon's lifeless body, R'gul's face became a study in conflicting emotions, none of which did the dragonrider any credit in Robinton's eyes. S'lel was at least honestly distressed, while unashamed tears streaked down C'gan's homely face as he knelt, hands hovering hopelessly over his wingleader's body.
"I've warned him often enough," R'gul murmured, shaking his head. "He would never listen."
Disgusted, Robinton turned away, and it was then that Tarathel noticed his bloody arm.
"For that alone, that man goes to the islands," Tarathel said, his voice taut with anger. "Surely he saw your Master's knots?"
"And disregarded them as easily as he ignored F'lon's rank," Robinton said, scanning the faces in the crowd. Fax should be arriving to view the result of his scheme – and that could be a second disaster. The law stated unequivocally that any man who deliberately killed a dragonrider was to be transported to one of the islands in the Eastern Sea. No trial was required if there were witnesses ... which there were. "R'gul, convey this man to the islands. Is that not correct, Lord Tarathel?"
"Yes, it most certainly is," Tarathel agreed. He had just listened to his son's account of what had happened. "Bronze rider, do you your duty."
"But there's been no trial," R'gul protested.
"By the First Egg, R'gul," C'gan said, horrified at the hesitation.
"I'll take him myself." He stepped forward to grab the captain by the arm.
"Release my captain!" cried Fax, shoving a rough path through the crowd. He caught the captain by the arm and started to pull him away from C'gan, glaring menacingly at the shorter blue rider.
C'gan had his knife drawn and, though he was much lighter than his would-be captive, his outrage provided him with greater strength: he did not relinquish his grip on the murderer.
"Your captain has just killed the Weyrleader," Tarathel said, every bit as resolute as C'gan.
"Who no doubt deserved what he got," Fax said, grinning and showing his teeth, and glancing about the crowd to gauge reactions.
"You know the law regarding murder, Fax," Tarathel replied.
"There is no recourse if a dragonrider has been slain. C'gan, since you have--"
"There's been no trial," Fax said.
"Since when did you reinstate trials?" Tarathel said ominously, his hand going to his knife hilt. "I am Lord Holder here. The death occurred on my lands and at my Gather. I judge your man guilty of unprovoked attack: first against my son, second against the MasterHarper, and finally and most outrageously against the Benden Weyrleader – an attack that ended in murder. For either of the two second counts, he merits banishment."
"I think not," Fax said. "Release him!"
Suddenly there were other men ruthlessly penetrating the crowd and stepping up to Fax, their aggression obvious in their eyes and manner. They all wore Fax's colours. Tarathel's eyes widened with fury.
"No!" Robinton cried, gesturing to the crowd. Fax's crew might be armed and dangerous, but there were only eight of them, while the crowd must number close to a hundred. "Telgar. Defend your Holder!"
With a roar of protest, Fax and his men were overwhelmed by those around him, grabbing at their arms and bodies and preventing them from drawing their weapons. Even R'gul and S'lel assisted while C'gan somehow tried to keep a firm grip on the murderer. Suddenly the blue rider cried for assistance as the man sagged and collapsed, a dagger through one eye.
And the dragons bellowed with triumph.
One look at the hilt of that slender throwing knife and Robinton knew who had cast it. He marvelled that Nip had been able to fling it so accurately through the milling crowd.
&n
bsp; Fax and his men were hurried away to their camp, where they were forced to pack up. A force of fifty willing holders and crafters assembled to escort the unwelcome guests all the way back to their borders. Lord Tarathel supplied food and runner-beasts to those who had none.
R'gul, S'lel and the other dragonriders took the body of their dead Weyrleader back to Benden. With a fresh wound, Robinton was prevented by the Hold's healer from accompanying his friend, but he drummed the awful message to every Hold and Hall. Only when he had completed that task could he rest. Nip slipped into Robinton's guest room late that night, rousing the MasterHarper from a restless sleep.
"Bad wound?" Nip asked solicitously.
"Annoying," Robinton replied, pulling himself carefully up in the bed as Nip kindly stuck pillows behind him. He grimaced at the pain of resettling the arm. The Hold's healer had given him quite a lecture on the stupidity of drumming messages with an arm in that condition. It shouldn't have required stitching if it had been attended to immediately, he was told in a sour voice. So he had endured the process, well fortified by a hefty fellis draught. "Good throw."
"You saved my knife? I'm fond of that blade. Superb balance," said Nip.
"Over there in the first drawer," Robinton said, nodding to the chest opposite the bed. "You'd no idea what Fax had planned?"
"None." Nip shook his head sadly as he retrieved his knife. "You may be sure I would have warned you had I had any idea. It must have been planned before they got here. I've been lurking' – he grinned – "where I might overhear something of value. My personal opinion is that they were just waiting for an opportunity. And they were taking no chances. I saw several other unlikely pairs – a lad and a bruising fighter – circulating the Gather. Wondered at such a pairing for Fax's men. They were after F'lon, no doubt about it."
"My feeling, too. Shards, they may have been planning such an assault since the last Telgar Gather was cancelled when Grogellan died." Robinton sighed heavily and reached for the numbweed salve.
The Master Harper of Pern Page 38