For a pulse beat, F'lar wondered if the man was deliberately provoking him with such subtle insults. The name of the bronze riders should be as well known throughout Pern as the name of the dragon queen and her Weyrwoman. F'lar kept his face composed, his eyes on Fax's.
Leisurely, with the proper touch of arrogance, F'nor stepped forward, stopping slightly behind Mnementh's head, one hand negligently touching the jaw hinge of the huge beast.
«The bronze rider of Mnementh, Lord F'lar, will require quarters for himself. I, F'nor, brown rider, prefer to be lodged with the wingmen. We are, in number, twelve.»
F'lar liked that touch of F'nor's, totting up the wing strength, as if Fax were incapable of counting. F'nor had phrased it so adroitly as to make it impossible for Fax to protest the return insult.
«Lord F'lar,» Fax said through teeth fixed in a smile, «the High Reaches are honored with your Search.»
«It will be to the credit of the High Reaches,» F'lar replied smoothly, «if one of its own supplies the Weyr.»
«To our everlasting credit,» Fax replied as suavely. «In the old days many notable Weyrwomen came from my Holds.»
«Your Holds?» asked F'lar, politely smiling as he emphasized the plural. «Ah, yes, you are now overlord of Ruatha, are you not? There have been many from that Hold.»
A strange, tense look crossed Fax's face, quickly supplanted by a determinedly affable grin. Fax stepped aside, gesturing F'lar to enter the Hold.
Fax's troop leader barked a hasty order, and the men formed two lines, their metal-edged boots flicking sparks from the stones.
At unspoken orders, all the dragons rose with a great churning of air and dust. F'lar strode nonchalantly past the welcoming files. The men were rolling their eyes in alarm as the beasts glided above to the inner courts. Someone on the high Tower uttered a frightened yelp as Mnementh took his position on that vantage point. His great wings drove phosphoric-scented air across the inner court as he maneuvered his great frame onto the inadequate landing space.