F'lar grunted, twirling the stem of his glass and apparently absorbed in admiring the ruby color.

"I'll miss Laudey," she went on after nibbling at a pastry, "although I do like Langrell as Igen Holder. Very nice person."

"Handsome, too."

She shot him a glance. "He needs a good wife."

"He'll have no trouble." F'lar poked at the contents of the basket before selecting a triangular pastry and popping it in his mouth. "Not bad."

She found another of the same shape. "No, it isn't." She licked her lips.

He sipped his wine, regarding her from the corner of his eye. "Do you favor Janissian for the Holdership at Southern Boll? That's another issue for the next Council to decide."

"Boll has an historical precedent for Lady Holders, you know."

He nodded, waiting for her to continue.

"Certainly Lady Marella has been directing the Hold unofficially for a long time, saving Sangel's face. She got Janissian educated at Landing, too."

"Groghe likes the girl. Old enough to take Hold. Well respected."

Lessa shrugged. "Jaxom says she's as organized as Sharra is. He'd be glad to step down from the position of youngest Lord Holder."

F'lar stretched out his right leg, grimacing as the tendon resisted full extension. He gave a sigh.

He's all right,Mnementh told Lessa privately, waking from his nap.

All that dancing he tried to tell me he didn't enjoy,Lessa replied.

"We need younger minds dealing with all the changes," she said aloud.

He turned his amber eyes on her, amused and slightly condescending. "Young heads can be as certain that they are right as the old ones. And no experience to draw on." He ate another pastry, licking his fingers as the juice within leaked. "Idarolan's been studying astronomy with that journeyman of Wansor's. He got Morilton to make him some special mirrors for a telescope to set up on that bridge of his down at Nerat's Ankle."

"For all that I like Curran as Masterfishman, I'll miss Idarolan's sly wit in the Council." She took another tidbit and then a sigh escaped her lips after she swallowed. "I shall miss them. I'll miss them all."

F'lar reached over the table to cover her thin, small, but remarkably capable hand, squeezing her fingers.

"We both shall, love." He picked up his glass. "To absent friends."

She raised hers, the glasses touched, and they finished off their wine.

Simultaneously they rose. F'lar slipped his arm about her slender shoulders, drawing her against his body as they walked in step to the sleeping room.

Lessa didn't think she'd gotten to sleep before they were both roused by angry dragon trumpeting.

Toric was recovering from too much wine consumed the night before. The red had definitely been too young to be potable, even if it had come from his own vineyard and therefore was handy and cost him nothing. Except this morning's headache. Well, it took time to establish vines and, considering the cost of the starts from Benden, he had been eager to see some return on the investment. MasterVintner Welliner's estimate of how much wine he would be bottling from the hillsides under cultivation was inaccurate, too. If this year's press was not up to what he'd been led to believe he could expect, he'd have a long chat with Welliner. Toric slowly opened dry eyes in his aching skull.

"You're getting old, Father," Besic said. He handed Toric a steaming mug. "Mother's compliments."

Toric stifled a groan as he took the mug. Though he knew from experience that Ramala's morning-after cure was efficacious, the steam was slightly nauseating and he averted his head before attempting the first gulp.

Besic settled himself in the sling chair, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles, thumbs hooked in his belt as he regarded his father with a bland expression.

"Hosbon's here. Sailed in from Largo last night. Got here at dawn."

Toric nearly dribbled the potion down his chin at the unwelcome news. Had Besic timed that remark until he had the cup to his lips? The two men tolerated each other warily, not because of Blood ties but out of begrudged respect. Toric grunted and drank as fast as the heat, and the taste, allowed. "I told him that you were busy."

"I am," Toric said. The liquid made him belch and left a vile taste in his mouth. He stood, balancing himself on his bare feet, to prove that he was capable of overcoming the previous night's excesses as easily as ever. He strode to where Ramala had laid out fresh clothes and stepped into the new short trousers and matching loose shirt that would be comfortable during the heat of the day. He growled as he had to sort the rank cords against his right shoulder. Nuisancy things. As if everyone didn't recognize the Lord Holder of Southern. That caused him to snort, as any reminder did of how he had been gulled by the Weyrleaders. From the corner of his eye he saw the smirk on Besic's face, as if he read his sire's thought.

"Didn't you think to bring in-"

Besic interrupted him by pointing to the breakfast tray on the table.

Despite the fact that the pounding in his head was easing, Toric was still in a foul humor. "What's on Hosbon's mind? He's always at me for some concession or other."

"He's a good holder," Besic said, knowing not only that his approval counted for nothing in Toric's opinion but also that, by being scrupulously fair, he could sometimes irritate his sire.

Toric waved his hands dramatically. "Is the man never satisfied? First it was a drum tower, then a pier, and a sloop and a crew."

"He gets results."

"So-what does he want this time? A hold dragonrider?" Though there was always a dragonrider available to Lord Toric, the relocation of Southern Weyr still rankled. It was irksome, too, that the Weyrleader, K'van-the impertinent scut-so punctiliously performed his duties to the Hold that Toric never had grounds to fault him. He had managed to swallow that mortification, since he really did prefer not to have the constant traffic of dragons overflying the harbor, but perhaps he should not have taken issue with K'van over the matter of Weyr support to subdue the rebels and that sharding Denol on Terne Island.

"Why, he wants to celebrate the end of Turnover with his Lord Holder," Besic said, getting to his feet. "Dutifully listen to whatever harper reads the Report. And, quite likely, to see what other craftsfolk he can lure to his hold."

"Hasn't he got enough?" Toric demanded, seething.

"Some can't get enough," Besic murmured, reaching the door as he delivered that parting shot.

"Get out! Get out!" And Toric lunged, aiming a kick at his son. Besic didn't so much as look back over his shoulder. So Toric kicked again at the heavy yellow wood door, which slammed satisfactorily, echoing down the stone hall. Besic knew his father too well!

Limping because he'd caught his bare toes on the wooden edge, Toric wheeled and attacked the food on his tray. The tonic had cleared his head and now his stomach grumbled, as much with hunger as with irritation.

Where would Hosbon put more craftsfolk? He'd already enticed some of the best-trained people from Landing once the Great Bang had been accomplished, supposedly ridding the planet of Threadfall forever. Toric was not at all convinced that Aivas had known what it was doing: imagine blowing a whole planet off its course with the stuff left in long-dead engines! Still, in sixteen Turns-or was it seventeen in this Pass?-the end of Thread meant he could proceed with his plans to develop the small portion of the southern continent that he had been able to wrest from the sharding Benden Weyrleaders. That inequity would always infuriate him.

He made an effort to calm himself. Ramala was certain his indigestion came from stress. He should take his meals calmly and eat slowly. He was, after all, Lord of an important Hold, no matter how much larger it should have been.