“Igen Weyr?” the man next to Veclan repeated scornfully. “Why don’t you say Telgar?”

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Fiona snapped at the rat-faced man. “I was talking to the Mastersmith.”

“Then you should learn manners, weyrgirl,” the rat-faced man growled back.

“Weyrwoman,” Fiona corrected, her tone carefully set so as to make her correction sound reflexive, as though she’d spoken absently. She eyed the man a moment, noted the journeyman badge on his breast, then said to Veclan, “I do hope it’s customary for the Mastersmith to do the talking in his own Hall.” She turned to the other man, adding, “And out of courtesy I would speak to you by name.”

“I am Journeyman Stirger,” the man replied testily.

“Mastersmith,” Fiona began again, then realized how tired she was of shouting and gestured around the hall, “I hate to distract you from your work, but is there a quieter place we could talk?”

“What happened to your leg — did you trip on the way down a dragon?” Stirger drawled.

“Lady Fiona was attacked by dogs that had gone wild at my mine,” Zenor said, stepping forward to catch Stirger’s eyes, his hands raised aggressively.

“Your mine?”

“Perhaps someplace quieter?” Fiona repeated.

Mastersmith Veclan eyed her a moment longer, then nodded. To Stirger he said, “Check on the castings.”

“But Master — ”

“Kindly ask Silstra to join us in my office,” Veclan said to Stirger. The journeyman waved a hand in acknowledgment and turned rudely away from the others without further word.

Veclan pointed out the way and nodded to indicate that Fiona should go first. When she turned and he caught sight of the symbol on the back of her jacket, he gasped. “You dare to wear that here!”

“It’s her right,” T’mar spoke up from behind the old Smith. “Hers is the senior queen at Igen.”

“The only queen,” Fiona called over her shoulder, feeling compelled to add in honesty, “And she’s not yet had her first Turn.”

Veclan held his questions until they reached a small office and he ushered them inside. The office housed two tables, one standing off to the side, and the other at the head of the room, clearly his workdesk. Both were cluttered with drawings and half-finished castings or other metal works. When Zenor shut the door behind them, the noise from the work floor diminished appreciably.

“So, Lord D’gan has decided to reestablish the Weyr?” Veclan asked as he gestured to the nearer table. Zenor pulled a chair out from under a pile of rubble and held it for Fiona, then set to work carefully moving the drawings and other items to clear a space for the others. T’mar looked at him, shaking his head, and set to helping as best he could.

“That’s not necessary,” Veclan said, “and you’ll only upset Silstra. She’s convinced that I can’t keep the place tidy by myself and she’d feel lost if I didn’t allow the rubbish to pile up.”

“Silstra?” Zenor perked up in surprise, his nagging feeling from the first time her name had been mentioned hardening into a firm suspicion. “Is she married to Terregar?”

“How do you — ” Veclan began in surprise, then shook his head. “You are from her mine.”

“Her brother Kindan was my best friend,” Zenor told him. “I helped wash Danil’s watch-wher the night before the wedding.” He shook his head reminiscently. “That was Turns past.” He looked up to Veclan. “Do they have any children?”

“They lost their first to the Plague,” Veclan told him sadly. “But they’ve another.”

“Silstra was the best cook and organizer and she knew all about healing and — ” Zenor’s enthusiasm was cut short as the door burst open and a young woman rushed in.

“Silstra?” Zenor asked, his eyes wide.

Silstra paused, taken aback. She glanced at Zenor, who stood up.

“Zenor!” she cried. “You survived!” She saw the other two then, and her eyes narrowed. “But what are you doing here with dragonriders?”

“We have a proposal for you,” Fiona said, taking a deep breath as Silstra’s fierce gaze latched on to her. “Zenor is part of it.” She nudged him, hissing, “Show them!”

Zenor paused for a moment and reached into his pocket, extracting a heavy bag. He glanced at Fiona one final time, then loosened the bag, upended its contents into his palm.

“We’d like some help in setting up a hold and craft hall,” he said as the Mastersmith lurched forward, eyes wide, to examine the nuggets resting in Zenor’s hand.

Veclan motioned questioningly to Zenor, who obediently dumped the contents of his palm into Veclan’s outstretched hand. The Mastersmith held the nuggets close to his face for a moment, then turned to Silstra. “Get Zellany.”

As Silstra turned to go, Fiona added, “And could you bring Terregar, as well?”

Silstra paused and turned back, eyeing Fiona dubiously. “Why do you want my husband here?”

“This concerns him,” Fiona told her.

“If it concerns him, it concerns me,” Silstra replied tartly.

“Of course,” Fiona agreed.

Silstra shot a glance toward Veclan, then demanded of Fiona, “And what business has the Weyr with our crafting?”

“We’re here mostly to help,” Fiona said, forcing herself to relax. “Our trade — ”

“Trade?” Silstra snorted. “Weyrs don’t trade!”

This  one does,” Zenor told her stoutly.

“Would you please get Terregar and whoever else the Master needs,” Fiona begged, “and then we’ll answer all your questions.”

Silstra glared at her for a moment, then glanced toward Veclan for confirmation before turning once more and leaving.

“Well, maybe not all  their questions,” Zenor murmured to Fiona, eyes twinkling.

An hour later, Fiona felt drained. Her wounded calf throbbed and she turned pleadingly to Zenor.

“Let’s go, milady,” he said, rising from his chair. He glared at Stirger, who had invited himself into the meeting halfway through and seemed only to delight in creating discord. “It’s obvious that there is no trade here.”

“Dragonriders don’t trade,” Stirger declared once more.

“We would,” Fiona responded, rising from her chair and propping her crutches under her arms. She turned to Silstra.

“I am sorry we couldn’t come to an agreement,” T’mar said, also rising.

Zenor glared at Silstra. “Kindan would have listened.”

“Doubtless,” Stirger drawled. “After all, he is a harper, and likes a good tale.”

Fiona bit back an angry retort, instead venting her anger and disappointment in a sigh. She turned to Veclan and Zellany, the other master at the Smith Hall, searching for some final words, but found none and shook her head in sorrow.

“We’re not coming back,” Zenor said to her as they made their way to the door. “We can find another way.”

Fiona said nothing, too weary to argue. She started forward then stopped, turning to Zenor. “Didn’t you want to ask them about the ring?”

“What ring?” Silstra demanded, glancing about the room as though looking for something missing.

“I can make it myself, I’m sure,” Zenor said. “Gold’s not that hard to work.”

“You’re going to use your gold to make this — this — ” Stirger spluttered, gesturing toward Fiona. “A ring for her finger?”

“No,” Fiona said, turning toward Silstra. “He’s going to make a ring for Nuella, before he asks her to marry him.” She smiled grimly. “And we were going to fit out our dragons to carry glows to honor them on their wedding night, the way Dask honored you on yours.”

Silstra went pale and sat down hard in her chair. Terregar glanced at her in shock, then turned to Fiona. “And what do you care? Dask was only a watch-wher!”

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