AS PIEMUR ENTERED Toric’s private room, he shot a quick glance at the inner wall to his left and saw that the hold map was, as usual, covered. Since Piemur had contributed many of the latest entries, he was amused by the man’s paranoid secrecy. Saneter was sitting on the edge of his bench, agitatedly rubbing his swollen knuckles. Piemur could tell nothing from Toric’s expression, which was a bad sign, especially when considering that he had returned from Big Lagoon to find the entire hold in a frenzy of indignation, outrage, and fright. Farli had chittered irrationally about dragons flaming her, then had disappeared. He had noticed that there were not many fire-lizards about, but there had been no time to look into the matter, as he had been ordered to report to Toric immediately.

“So, what have I done wrong this time?” Piemur asked brazenly.

“Nothing, unless your conscience is heavy,” Toric said edgily and Piemur immediately altered his expression and manner to respectful attentiveness. “Why would all the dragonriders leave?” the Holder went on.

“They’ve left?” Piemur wondered that Toric was not ecstatic. He glanced at Saneter for confirmation and the old harper flapped his fingers in a confusing sign that the boy could not interpret. When T’ron had died, T’kul had insisted that he was Weyrleader, and the situation at Southern Weyr had deteriorated rapidly. None of the other bronze riders had contested T’kul, but no one was happy with his irrational attitudes and demands.

“There isn’t a male dragon anywhere,” Toric said, rubbing his chin on his fist. “Only Mardra’s queen is weyred, and she’s more dead than asleep.” Toric was rarely without some course of action; not always one that Saneter—and sometimes Piemur—approved, but one generally guaranteed to protect Southern Hold. “There isn’t Threadfall,” he went on, not hiding his contempt for the Southern dragonriders who so seldom stirred themselves to perform traditional duties. “So I can’t think why all the males would just take off.”

“Nor I,” Piemur agreed. His voice must have sounded a little too cheerful, for Toric gave him a long measuring stare. Piemur waited patiently. Toric obviously had something in mind.

“You like it here, don’t you?” the holder finally asked.

“My first loyalty is to my Craftmaster,” Piemur replied, holding Toric’s gaze. So far Piemur had managed to retain his first allegiance, warped a trifle, but unsullied.

“Understood.” Toric flicked his fingers in acceptance of Piemur’s response. “But my first loyalty is not to those—those sisters’ mothers.”

“Understood.” Piemur grinned at the description of the Oldtimers, though the incestuous implications drew a gargled protest from Saneter.

“And I’m sure you already know that you’ve got your Southern holders behind you all the way,” he added, thinking that was the reassurance Toric wanted.

“Of course I do!” Toric flicked his fingers again impatiently. “What I need is to be distanced, officially, from whatever that lot is now up to.”

“What could they be up to?” There were not that many Oldtimers to be effective at anything: both men and dragons were old, tired and more pathetic than dangerous. Except T’kul—lately no hold woman was safe from that womanizer.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t worry. I do so now, officially, in the presence of two journeyman harpers, disclaim any knowledge or part in any Southern dragonrider activity.”

“Heard and witnessed,” Saneter said, and Piemur echoed the formal words. “But I do think that you should inform the Weyrleaders. They are, after all, the best ones to deal with other dragonriders.”

“They can’t, and they won’t,” Toric said, his voice grating angrily, “interfere with the Oldtimers. They made that clear enough to me.”

“At least Benden keeps its word,” Piemur muttered, aware of just how much latitude Toric had given himself after his discussion two Turns before with the Benden Weyrleaders. When Toric gave him a cold and calculating stare, Piemur held up both hands in apology for his impudence. “I could send Farli—if I can get my hands on her—with a warning to T’gellan that the Oldtimers have all vacated. You owe Benden that.”

Toric considered, scowling and rattling his fingers on the worktable.

“I did report those peculiar exercises they were doing a few days ago, popping in and out of between. It still makes no sense, but maybe the Weyr can figure it out.” Piemur realized that Toric would rather see the Oldtimers do something so dire and unforgivable that the Northern Weyrs would be forced to confront the problem they posed.

Neither could have guessed what the Oldtimers were attempting until three days later. Abruptly Mnementh appeared in the sky over Southern, Ramoth following a second later, swooping across the Hold clearing toward the Weyr. Piemur was astonished enough to see the two great Benden dragons, but when he realized that they were riderless, his heart began to pound with dread. Had some incredible disaster occurred in Benden? What could possibly have caused Mnementh and Ramoth to come here on their own? He raced for Toric’s hold to find the holder and old Saneter outside, staring skyward in consternation.

“Why would dragons come here without their riders?” Toric asked, his eyes never leaving the beasts as they wheeled above the Weyr, heads down, eyes a brilliant orange. “Those are too big to be Oldtimer beasts.”

“It’s Ramoth and Mnementh,” Piemur replied, his anxiety increasing as he noted the color of their eyes.

“What are they doing here?” Toric’s voice sounded slightly strained.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Piemur admitted, shading his eyes and hoping to see the dragons’ eyes turning a less agitated shade.

“They’re searching the Weyr. What for?” Saneter asked in a fearful murmur.

Suddenly Ramoth flung her head up, uttering the most poignantly sorrowful cry Piemur had ever heard. Not the keen of mourning, but a weird and terrible anguished plaint. Despite the heat of the day he shuddered, the flesh on his arms rising in chill bumps. Even Toric paled slightly, and Saneter gave a moan. Mnementh’s deeper voice echoed his queen’s in a discordant tone that increased the pathos of their call.

Then, as abruptly as they had arrived, the two dragons disappeared. For a long moment, the holder and the two harpers remained motionless. Finally Toric exhaled in gusty relief. “Now what was that all about, Piemur?”

Piemur shook his head. “Whatever’s happened, it’s bad.”

“Bloody Oldtimers! If they’ve compromised me…” Toric shook his fist at the Weyr.

“Oh!” Saneter’s astonished exclamation brought their attention to the nine bronzes that were sweeping in. One circled to land, while the others began a quartering search, their feet flicking the topmost foliage, making it look as if they were walking on the forest roof.

“That’s Lioth and N’ton,” Piemur said. He was relieved until he saw the bronze rider’s dark expression as he dismounted and strode purposefully up to them. Then anxiety came flooding back. “Ramoth and Mnementh were just here—riderless. What’s happened?”

“Ramoth’s queen egg has been stolen from the Hatching Ground.”

“Stolen?” The word erupted from Toric’s lips as he stared with utter disbelief at the bronze rider. Saneter gasped and covered his eyes. Piemur swore.

“It is regrettable that we hesitated to inform you of their recent erratic behavior—” Toric lifted both hands in mute apology. “But who would have expected them to commit such a heinous crime against the Weyrs?” He sounded unusually subdued. “How could they hope to…how could that help? Where could they hide–no, not here!” He lifted his hands, fending off the mere hint of any complicity. “Search! Search!” He gestured expansively. “Look everywhere!”