Dragonquest Read Online Free PDF

material was extruded as a fine wire. He was about to ask questions when he saw the sullen, closed expressions of the crafters. He nodded pleasantly and continued on his way, uneasy at the indifference—no, the distaste—exhibited at his presence. He was beginning to wish that he hadn’t agreed to do Manora’s errand.
    But Smithcraftmaster Fandarel was the obvious authority on metal and could tell why the big kettle had suddenly discolored the vital anesthetic salve. F’nor swung the kettle to make sure the two sample pots were within, and grinned at the selfconscious gesture; for an instant he had a resurgence of his boyhood apprehension of losing something entrusted to him.
    The entrance to the main Smithcrafthall was imposing: four landbeasts could be driven abreast through that massive portal and not scrape their sides. Did Pern breed Smithcraftmasters in proportion to that door? F’nor wondered as its maw swallowed him, for the immense metal wings stood wide. What had been the original Smithy was now converted to the artificers’ use. At lathes and benches, men were polishing, engraving, adding the final touches to otherwise completed work. Sunlight streamed in from the windows set high in the building’s wall, the eastern shutters were burnished with the morning sun which reflected also from the samples of weaponry and metalwork in the open shelves in the center of the big Hall.
    At first, F’nor thought it was his entrance which had halted all activity, but then he made out two dragonriders who were menacing Terry. Surprised as he was to feel the tension in the Hall, F’nor was more disturbed that Terry was its brunt, for the man was Fandarel’s second and his major innovator. Without a thought, F’nor strode across the floor, his bootheels striking sparks from the flagstone.
    â€œAnd a good day to you, Terry, and you, sirs,” F’nor said, saluting the two riders with airy amiability. “F’nor, Canth’s rider, of Benden.”
    â€œB’naj, Seventh’s rider of Fort,” said the taller, grayer of the two riders. He obviously resented the interruption and kept slapping an elaborately jeweled belt knife into the palm of his hand.
    â€œT’reb, Beth’s rider, also of Fort. And if Canth’s a bronze, warn him off Beth.”
    â€œCanth’s no poacher,” F’nor replied, grinning outwardly but marking T’reb for a rider whose green’s
amours
affected his own temper.
    â€œOne never knows just what is taught at Benden Weyr,” T’reb said with thinly veiled contempt.
    â€œManners, among other things, when addressing Wing-seconds,” F’nor replied, still pleasant. But T’reb gave him a sharp look, aware of a subtle difference in his manner. “Good Master Terry, may I have a word with Fandarel?”
    â€œHe’s in his study . . .”
    â€œAnd you told us he was not about,” T’reb interrupted, grabbing Terry by the front of his heavy wher-hide apron.
    F’nor reacted instantly. His brown hand snapped about T’reb’s wrist, his fingers digging into the tendons so painfully that the green rider’s hand was temporarily numbed.
    Released, Terry stood back, his eyes blazing, his jaw set.
    â€œFort Weyr manners leave much to be desired,” F’nor said, his teeth showing in a smile as hard as the grip with which he held T’reb. But now the other Fort Weyr rider intervened.
    â€œT’reb! F’nor!” B’naj thrust the two apart. “His green’s proddy, F’nor. He can’t help it.”
    â€œThen he should stay weyrbound.”
    â€œBenden doesn’t advise Fort,” T’reb cried, trying to step past his Weyrmate, his hand on his belt knife.
    F’nor stepped back, forcing himself to cool down. The whole episode was ridiculous. Dragonriders did not quarrel in public. No one should use a Craftmaster’s