“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!”
“It is apparently a matter of everywhen,” N’ton said grimly. Piemur groaned, suddenly understanding the significance of the Oldtimers’ latest exercises: They had been practicing going between times, a dangerous use of draconic abilities, even for the best of reasons—which Lessa’s famous ride had been, but which stealing an egg was not.
Toric looked inquiringly at N’ton, expecting an explanation; then he gave Piemur a hard and significant look.
“Toric has nothing to hide, N’ton,” Piemur said solemnly, recalling their recent interview and Toric’s request. “Saneter and I give you our oath on that!”
N’ton nodded gravely and returned to Lioth, springing to take his place on the bronze’s back. Toric and the two harpers watched until the dragons had swept beyond their line of sight, frantically inspecting the surrounding forest.
“What do we do now?” Toric asked in a low voice.
“Hope,” Piemur replied, wishing fervently that he had sent Farli when he could. Although who could have suspected those depraved fools to be mad enough to steal an egg from Ramoth? How could any strange dragons have got into the Benden Hatching Ground? Ramoth rarely left it. And how could they have left the Ground without being intercepted?
The next few hours were exceedingly anxious. But just when Piemur had made himself ill with imagining the consequences—for the Oldtimers as well as for Southern Hold—Tris, N’ton’s brown fire-lizard, appeared with a message on his leg for Piemur. He was also wearing an intricate neck design, an addition so recent that the paint still glistened.
Unrolling the message as he ran, Piemur raced for Toric’s office. “It’s all right, Toric! The egg’s back!”
“What? How? Let me see!” Toric grabbed the note from Piemur’s hands and, with unusual openness, muttered the tightly written words aloud.
“The egg has been returned—no one knows by what agency. Ramoth had left the clutch to eat. Three bronzes appeared, and before the watchdragon realized their intent, they’d flown into the Ground. Ramoth screamed, but the bronzes were away and between with the queen egg before she could act. As you will appreciate, Ramoth and Mnementh suspected the Oldtimers and instantly overflew the Southern Weyr without finding any trace. It was then obvious that the absconding dragons had gone between time to secure their theft. Before a disciplinary move could be made, the egg was returned. One moment it was not in the Hatching Ground, in the next breath it was there. However, it was taken somewhen for long enough to be quite hard, a condition that incenses the Weyrwoman, for it confirms the elapse of considerable time. Where is not known. The Oldtimers are suspected, for what other Weyr would steal what it can produce? Master Robinton urged caution and deliberation, even spoke out against a punitive search, and has been peremptorily dismissed from Benden Weyr. N’ton.”
“So!” Toric said, leaning back in his chair. He tapped the message against his desk. “So the Oldtimers have compromised only themselves. That is a relief.”
“If you see it as one,” Piemur murmured, and abruptly strode out of the hold. Toric could be as relieved as he wished, but Piemur was far from easy. The Masterharper exiled from Benden? That was bloody awful. The more he thought of the consequences of such an estrangement, the more depressed he became. It had come so frighteningly near the worst catastrophe that could afflict Pern—dragon fighting dragon. Those accursed Oldtimers! What consummate fools! Especially T’kul, who undoubtedly had instigated the senseless scheme. There would be retribution for their act, and Piemur devoutly hoped that the future of Southern Hold—and Toric’s ambitions—had not been jeopardized. But he worried most of all about Master Robinton’s anomalous situation.
The Oldtimers returned late that afternoon. It was a small satisfaction to Piemur, when Toric sent him to check, to note the utter dejection and the drained color of every single Oldtimer dragon. The dragons were too exhausted by their failure even to eat and most of the riders were intent on getting very drunk.
“That’s nothing new,” Toric replied when Piemur reported to him. “Shards, but I don’t think there’s much to choose between Northern and Southern dragonriders,” Toric went on, pacing the length of his workroom. He did not seem to notice that he was kicking furniture out of his way and knocking objects off tables with impatient sweeps of his hands. He had kept his temper during the day and was still wound tight as a screw. “But how could I have suspected they’d try something like stealing Ramoth’s queen egg? Believe me, boy, T’kul and those randy riders of his did steal that egg. No question of it in my mind.” Piemur nodded agreement, hoping Toric would just leave matters lie for a while. “I should have guessed that they’d be desperate for a queen to mate bronzes while there’s enough energy in any of them to fly her. I’d say they waited too long! I don’t know who did restore Ramoth’s egg, but by Faranth, I’m grateful to him. It was close there today, boy. Damned close. Those Northern dragons could have charred everything—Hold and Weyr.” Another wide sweep of Toric’s hand knocked Records to the floor. “I don’t like the Oldtimers, but not even I would want dragon to fight dragon.”