CHAPTER 7

CROM HOLD

When Halla woke the next morning, she gasped in surprise. She was in a bed with fresh sheets. She shouldn’t be in a bed, she was too dirty!

Memories rushed back, and Halla struggled to get out from under the sheets only to discover that she was surrounded by the warm bodies of the children Moran had placed in her care. It took several moments of careful maneuvering before she could extricate herself, leaving the sleeping children behind. She spared only a moment for her embarrassment when she discovered that she had on only her undergarments—blushing red at the thought of Lord Fenner skinning her out of her dirt-encrusted tunic—before locating a huge plush towel and wrapping it around her.

She listened at the door for a moment before opening it swiftly, hoping to catch anyone outside off guard.

“Daddy said you’d be up by now,” a girl down the corridor called out to her. The girl looked like a thinner, smaller version of Lord Fenner, only with blond hair instead of brown and eyes, that if anything, sparkled more than those of Crom’s Lord Holder.

The girl bore down on Halla and held out her hand. “I’m Nerra.”

Awkwardly Halla took the proffered hand.

“Are you hungry?” Nerra asked and Halla saw that she carried a basket in her other hand. “I’ve got some rolls, but not much fruit and all of it dried.”

“Dried fruit would be nice, my lady,” Halla said, trying her best to imitate the curtsies she’d seen Hold ladies use.

Nerra smiled so widely that her face dimpled. “Oh, but the rolls are fresh and I’ve got butter.”

“Fresh?” Halla repeated blankly.

“Cook told me to bring them specially,” Nerra said. She gestured back to some distant spot in the large Hold. “She said I was to feed you before your bath and to watch the children if they woke.” Her face fell as she confided, “I don’t know how I’ll manage eight.”

“I can have a bath?” Halla repeated, her skin crawling with excitement at the very notion. She turned her head to peer around the hallway. “Where is the bucket?”

“Bucket!” Nerra snorted. “We don’t have a bucket, we have a bath room.”

“A whole room?” Halla exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Certainly,” Nerra replied in a surprised tone. She gestured back to the room. “But first we should eat.”

And so, twenty minutes later, Halla found herself lowering her small, lean frame into a whole tub of warm water. She came out again only when she heard Nerra’s frantic knocking, and the other girl’s frantic cry, “Help, they’re all over the place!”

Halla found herself issuing orders to the Lord Holder’s daughter and the Hold guards while clad only in a pair of thick, plush towels. Soon, to Nerra’s obvious amazement, she had restored order and got the two younger ones into a bath where, after several moments of panic, they were now happily splashing, cavorting, and thoroughly drenching the guard captain.

Much later the guard captain, properly dried off, escorted Halla once more into the Great Hall, with Nerra chatting away happily at her side.

Halla felt nervous in the rich surroundings and the old clothes Nerra had loaned her.

“Don’t worry, he’s not the growler he pretends,” Nerra whispered to Halla, stopping, and—suddenly all formal—curtsying to her father.

“Greetings, my lord,” she said, doing nothing to ease Halla’s fears. “I bring the prisoner for your judgment.”

Prisoner? Halla’s eyes widened and she found herself once again searching for the best exit from the Great Hall.

“What are her crimes?” Fenner called out from his seat at the end of the hall.

“Complicity in theft, flight from a crime,” Nerra replied formally. Quietly, in a totally different tone, she confided to Halla, “But I told him you didn’t do it.”

“Lady Nerra, please stick to the forms,” Fenner growled in exasperation.

Nerra gave her father a grumpy look but nodded. “What is your pleasure, my lord?”

“The rule of Crom lands rests with the Lord of Crom,” Fenner intoned severely. He crooked a finger at Halla, beckoning her forward. With a slight push from Nerra, Halla found herself walking down the long way to the Lord Holder’s chair.

When she was directly in front of him, Fenner held up a hand for her to stop.

“What is your hold?” he asked her, his tone still formal.

Halla shook her head in silence.

“What is your craft?”

Again Halla shook her head.

“So you claim no hold or craft?” Fenner asked, his tone full of solemn disapproval.

“None, my lord,” Halla said honestly, her arms hanging limply at her side. He had seemed so nice, too.

“And did you steal as accused?”

“No,” Halla answered honestly.

“Were you not identified as a thief and nearly Shunned?” Fenner asked, leaning forward to gaze directly into her eyes.

“Yes.”

“How plead you?” Fenner asked solemnly.

Plead? Halla looked at him questioningly. She shifted on her foot nervously. Was she supposed to beg for her life? Or did he expect her to tell him that Milera was the thief? If Milera ever found out—and Halla wondered where she’d been so long—she’d choke her for sure.

“Not guilty,” Nerra whispered stridently to her. Halla turned to face her with a questioning look. “Say ‘not guilty,’” Nerra whispered again.

“Not guilty,” Halla said. Hastily she added, “My lord.”

“Good,” Nerra murmured approvingly. “Now demand justice.”

Halla nodded and swallowed. “My lord, I demand justice.”

“In what name?”

“My name. Halla.”

“Very well,” Fenner replied. “Justice is asked and will be given.”

He closed his eyes for a moment in thought. When he opened them again he looked straight at Halla.

“The issues against Halla of no hold are dropped,” he declared. “The judgment is that the children traveling with you will become fosterlings of Crom Hold, under my protection until they come of age.”

Halla opened her mouth to form a protest, but Nerra nudged her foot so sharply that Halla was afraid for her balance.

After a moment of silence, Lord Fenner looked up at Halla again and smiled. “Well, now that that’s done, I think it’s time for some lunch, don’t you?”

Halla could only nod in shock.

Moments later she found herself seated at the great table in the kitchen while Nerra bustled about, arranging for the feeding of the eight new fosterlings.

“I swear that I’ll treat them as my own,” Fenner said when he caught Halla glancing nervously at the children. Once he was certain that she had heard him, he allowed himself to cast a glance at the eight youngsters, the newest additions to Crom Hold. They were all very thin and haggard. Fenner hoped that they would fill out with enough food. “I’m surprised they survived.”

“Not all did,” Halla admitted in a dull voice, her thoughts full of shallow graves and yellow flowers.

“Why did you not ask for the mercy of the Lord Holder?” Fenner asked, his face full of honest curiosity.

Halla flushed and shook her head. “I didn’t know.”

“Who was with you before?” Nerra asked. Halla gave her a startled look which Nerra waved aside. “You were little once; someone had to look out for you.”

Hastily, Halla sought a safe answer. “My brother, Jamal.”

“What happened to him?”

“He broke his leg and it got infected.”

“So where is he?” Nerra asked, glancing around as if expecting to see him any moment.

“He died three Turns ago,” Halla replied.

“Then he wasn’t the last one to help you,” Fenner declared. “Who was?”

Halla pursed her lips tightly. Fenner reached over and lifted her chin lightly with his forefinger until her eyes met his. “I have a reason for asking,” he told her. “I am trying to contact the Shunned, you see.”

Halla gave him a startled look. Why would a Lord Holder want to contact the very people he’d Shunned?

“Thread will be coming soon,” Lord Fenner said in answer to her unspoken question. “I think now is the right time to set aside lands for the Shunned and give them the right to hold what they can.”

Halla blinked in surprise, crying, “But they’re Shunned!”

“Some I’ve Shunned myself,” Fenner confessed. “When I can see a way, I let holders and crafters be. For murder, repeated manslaughter, repeated theft, even sheer laziness, I have to consider the good of all.”

He pointed to the ceiling. “Thread is coming back. We need to start storing the food we can now in case we aren’t so prosperous in future Turns. That way we’ll have sufficient in reserve for any disaster Thread might inflict on us.”

He sighed and spread his hands, indicating his entire hold. “I can’t ask one man to toil in the hot sun when another does nothing.”

“What if one man has no tools?” Halla asked. “Or his fields are full of rocks?”

“We give him tools, and we all work to clear the rocks from fields,” Fenner said. “When Thread comes, we will all need everything we can get—shorting one man makes no sense.”

Halla nodded, wondering why Moran hadn’t told her this. Of course, she thought sourly, he was a fat man.

“But if you give them tools, wouldn’t that make you Shunned also?” Halla asked after a thoughtful silence.

“Before that, we have to contact them,” Fenner said, “which is where you come in.”

Halla was surprised and it showed.

“I’d like you to contact those of the Shunned who are willing to settle,” Fenner told her. Halla looked questioningly at him. He nodded. “You are young enough to present no threat and bright enough to know when to speak.

“And the Traders speak highly of you,” he added, smiling at Halla’s look of surprise. “As Lord Holder, I am supposed to know what goes on in my Hold.”

“He does, believe me,” Nerra added fervently.

Fenner waved at his daughter for silence; to Halla’s eyes, the gesture spoke of an affection greater than she’d ever seen.

“But I’m only a little girl,” Halla protested feebly.

“Yes,” Fenner agreed, eyeing her carefully. “I suppose you are.”

Halla caught the challenge in his tone and her face flashed with anger.

“I’ll do it,” she told him defiantly.

“But you’re right, you are young,” Fenner responded.

“Don’t push it, Father,” Nerra said acerbically. “She’s agreed to go.”

Fenner smiled at Halla. “I’d hoped you would.”

“We’ll have to go higher, my lord,” Toldur called to D’vin from behind the dragonrider as they flew over the precipitous mountains north of the High Reaches. “I can still smell the sea.”

In front of him, D’vin nodded, and Hurth suddenly banked and veered inland.

Cristov was wedged in between the bronze rider and Toldur, still somewhat in shock at the speed with which events had moved. It had taken less than a day to gather tools, maps, and equipment, and it had taken only three short seconds to move halfway across the continent from Crom Hold to High Reaches Weyr.

There, Toldur and Cristov met with B’ralar, the Weyrleader, to discuss their plans. Cristov took the time to stroll around the Weyr, examining dragons and quarters with nearly equal interest, marveling at how the ancient builders had managed to produce such straight, smooth corridors, at the size of the individual weyrs, and at the sheer bustle and energy of everyone in the Weyr.

He was even more impressed and somewhat daunted by the tour of the firestone caves, especially when he was told that the replacement cave had taken the weyrfolk three Turns to construct. Another cave was a mere open sore at the base of the Weyr—testament to the power of firestone and its combustibility.

It took another hour for Toldur and Cristov, referring to the wind-rattled map, to find a suitable place for mining. Once they’d settled on a location, it took mere seconds for Hurth to land them and their supplies.

“I’ll be up to check on you every day,” D’vin promised. “Let me know if you need help.”

“Certainly,” Toldur said, waving a thanks to the dragonrider. “We’ll have our first site by noon tomorrow.”

After D’vin departed, Cristov and Toldur selected a suitably flat site and set up a hasty camp under a rock outcropping. The two collected kindling and larger branches and quickly built a roaring fire. As the night wore on, Cristov grew increasingly grateful for the fire’s warmth and light.

“It’s colder up here than at Crom,” Toldur observed as he slipped into his sleeproll. “We’ll need to be careful if snow comes.”

Cristov grunted in agreement, too tired and wound up to talk. He was soon asleep.

“This is a bad time to mine,” Toldur remarked the next morning as they chipped cautiously away at the grass and soil covering a nearly sheer cliff. Toldur frowned as a drizzle of dirt rained down on him from above.

“At least the ground’s soaked enough to keep the dirt from sliding too much,” Cristov said as the slide tapered off.

Toldur frowned, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I like the idea of wet soil meeting firestone.”

They peered at the bare rock their labors had exposed and smiled.

“There’s a clay layer here,” he said happily. “It would protect any firestone beneath it.”

Cristov nodded, looking at the exposed rock for the telltale dark gray and dark yellow crystals. When he found a candidate, he would silently point it out to Toldur. Four times he pointed, and four times Toldur shook his head. When he pointed for the fifth time, Toldur nodded, saying, “It looks like it to me, too.”

Toldur gingerly tapped a small section out of the hillside. Cristov caught the shards as they fell, grateful that he and Toldur had found a creosote bush nearby in the valley. They’d rubbed their hands on it to stop their palms from sweating, a precaution they’d learned from the Weyrlingmaster at High Reaches.

They took their samples over to a nearby stream.

“Ready,” Toldur said, eyeing the stream carefully and nodding to Cristov. Cristov tossed the contents of the bucket into the stream. Toldur peered intently for telltale signs of gas, then shook his head.

D’vin had explained that firestone gas only exploded in large quantities. In smaller quantities, the gas was deadly if inhaled.

Cristov and Toldur had agreed that tossing the suspect rocks into a running stream was a safe way to detect firestone—if the rocks were firestone, they’d emit the characteristic gases that immediately exploded on contact with air.

“I don’t know,” Toldur said as Cristov gave him a questioning look. “Perhaps we’ll have to use the bucket instead.”

Neither of them liked the idea of filling a bucket with water and dropping suspect rocks into it; the dangers of inhaling fatal gases or of ruinous explosion were too high.

Cristov pursed his lips in thought. “Perhaps we could use one of the cooking pans.”

“Get the big one,” Toldur suggested. Cristov nodded and raced back to their campsite. When he returned, he was moving more slowly, as the big pot was not only heavy but bulky, restricting movement in the undergrowth.

They selected a wide clearing near the river, placed the pot close to the river’s edge, and used the bucket to fill it with water.

“Now all we need are more samples,” Toldur said.

Cristov shook his head. “We need a dry bucket, too.”

Toldur grunted in agreement. With a shrug, Cristov turned back to the campsite.

“I’ll head back to the rock site,” Toldur called as Cristov moved away. Cristov raised an arm in acknowledgment, still moving briskly toward their camp.

Ten minutes later they were back beside the pot, close together. Cristov tossed the contents of the dry bucket into the water in the pot, while Toldur watched carefully. The water bubbled, and the bubbles burst into flame on contact with air.

“Firestone,” Cristov whispered in awe. Toldur’s amazed and wary look was all the agreement he needed.

“We’ve got to work quickly,” Toldur said, his voice full of urgency. His legs gave meaning to his words and he outpaced the shorter Cristov. When Cristov caught up again, Toldur said, “We’ve got to build a full entrance before nightfall; we don’t want a late night snow or downpour to destroy our site.”

They worked quickly. Cristov’s hands blistered as he hauled away load after load of clay while Toldur bared the entrance fully and dug into the face of their firestone vein, squaring it up.

Cristov would dump a load of clay and return with planed wooden beams for shoring.

Working carefully, he and Toldur constructed a proper shaft entrance. They glanced at the entrance for a moment before Toldur groaned, “The first drop of water will set off the mine.”

They went back for some clay, which they placed on top of the mine entrance to keep any melting water from entering the mine.

It was a tough race, but by night, bone-weary, Toldur and Cristov stood in front of a proper mine entrance, the roof and sides protected by layers of protective clay.

Early the next morning, when D’vin arrived, Toldur surprised him with a sack full of rock.

“No more than an eighth hundredweight,” the miner said diffidently. “But we wanted to give you some ore to test.”

“Well, then,” D’vin said, “let’s see if you’ve found some firestone.”

Ready? he asked his dragon, patting Hurth’s neck affectionately.

It’s not a lot, Hurth responded, warily eyeing the sack D’vin held. However, he opened his great maw and let D’vin throw him the largest of the chunks to chew and swallow.

It seems about the same, Hurth said after a moment. Hurth raised his head and emitted a bellow of fire.

Cristov jumped in surprise.

“That’s definitely firestone,” D’vin said. “The quality’s good, too.”

“Is he okay?” Cristov asked, looking up at Hurth worriedly.

“Have you ever heard of the hot peppers from Southern Boll?” D’vin asked. Cristov nodded. “Imagine that you’d eaten a whole mouthful of the ripest, hottest of those peppers.”

“That bad?” Toldur asked, shaking his head in awe at Hurth’s constitution.

“If our ancestors created the dragons, why didn’t they create them so that eating firestone wasn’t so painful?” Cristov asked.

“A good question,” D’vin said. “And one that’s talked about often in the Weyrs.” He shook his head resignedly. “Our best guess is that our ancestors didn’t have the time to make things perfect.”

“But doesn’t the pain of chewing firestone distract the dragons from fighting Thread?” Cristov asked.

“No,” D’vin said, “they are willing to endure it for Pern’s sake.” And so am I, he added to himself, casting an apologetic look toward his dragon.

It is the only way, Hurth agreed, his second stomach feeling bloated and his throat sore.

D’vin nodded in agreement and turned to the miners. “This is high-quality firestone,” he said again. “How soon can you get the mine into operation? What do you need from us?”

Cristov and Toldur were prepared for those questions, having thought about both for a long while.

“We don’t ask for dragonriders to help in the mining,” Toldur began, “but any help would speed things up, particularly among those miner-trained.”

D’vin sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid we can’t help you there. None of our weyrfolk have mining experience.”

“We’d thought as much,” Toldur said. “But if your weyrfolk could help in making the wooden shorings and beams, then we’d have more time to put them in place and flesh out the mine head.”

“That we can do,” D’vin replied, nodding vigorously. “Anything else?”

“Do you suppose you have someone who could rig up some pumps?” Cristov asked. He pointed to a waterfall in the distance. “I was thinking if they could use the power of the waterfall to run the pumps, then we could pull any gases out of the mine.”

“If we don’t have an automatic way to clear out gas buildups, we’ll have to run the pumps by hand,” Toldur explained. “That would mean only one of us in the mines and…well, I’m afraid that the mine and the miner would be short-lived.”

“Very well, I’ll get with the headwoman and see if we can’t solve that problem,” D’vin said. “If we can’t, I’m sure the Mastersmith can.”

Cristov turned to Toldur, eyes shining with amazement as he mouthed the word, “Mastersmith.”

Toldur laughed and clapped him on the back. “You think too little of yourself, journeyman! All Pern relies on our efforts now, so why wouldn’t all Pern pitch in and help?”

“Indeed,” D’vin agreed. Why wouldn’t all Pern help? Toldur’s question echoed in his mind. Was there a way to get more help—help D’vin hadn’t ever previously considered? Weren’t the Shunned also part of all Pern? What would B’ralar say to his radical thought? What of the Lord Holders and Craftmasters?

“But with two of us, even if the pumps are automatic, we can hardly mine enough for all the Weyrs,” Cristov said.

Toldur gave him a thoughtful look, then turned to the dragonrider. “How much firestone do the Weyrs need?”

“As much as we can get,” D’vin said promptly. Seeing Toldur’s surprised look, he expounded. “We like to keep only a little on hand because it’s so dangerous. Typically a dragon needs at least a hundredweight of firestone for a full Fall, sometimes two or three. With three hundred fighting dragons in a Weyr, that works out to a minimum of fifteen tonnes per Fall.” He paused, stroking his chin, debating whether to say more and finally added, “My search of the Records indicates that in a typical Fall, a Weyr needs closer to forty tonnes.”

“Forty tonnes?” Cristov murmured, glancing to Toldur and then on to the mine, unable to imagine how they could mine such a huge number every sevenday.

“For one Weyr,” Toldur noted. “We’d need five times that number for all the Weyrs.”

“Probably more,” D’vin corrected. “Telgar flies with the strength of nearly two Weyrs.”

“Two hundred and forty tonnes every sevenday,” Cristov said, awed.

“I think we’re going to need some help,” Toldur said.

D’vin waved a hand, dismissing the issue. “Not for some time, however. The first thing is to get you up and running. Aside from pumps, what other needs have you?”

Toldur took on a distant, thoughtful look. “We’ll need a good storage site; plenty of firestone sacks; maybe some hands to help load the firestone; a good set of rails and carts to haul firestone to and from the mine—I think that’s it.”

D’vin laughed, shaking his head. The two miners looked at him in surprise. “Weren’t you ever planning on sleeping?”

“Well, yes,” Toldur said, wondering why the dragonrider had brought up the issue.

“Or eating?”

The two miners nodded.

“Then I suppose you’d like a place to live and perhaps a cook to take that burden off of you,” D’vin said.

“We can sleep in our camp,” Toldur said, surprised at D’vin’s generous offer. “And we cook well enough.”

D’vin shook his head, holding up a hand to forestall further comments from the miners. “The least the Weyr can do is to provide you with a warm place to sleep, hot meals, and hot water with which to bathe.”

A look of joy and amazement flashed across Cristov’s face only to be replaced by bemusement as he wondered why the Weyr would consider treating two mere miners so well.

“It’s the least we can do,” D’vin said in answer to his unasked question. “And, if you think about it, it’s for the most selfish of reasons—every waking moment you’re not mining firestone means less practice time for us.”

“‘Dragonmen must fly when Threads are in the sky,’” Cristov quoted, realizing that dragons without firestone were helpless against Thread.

In the days that followed, Cristov and Toldur found themselves pampered by weyrfolk morning and night, with hot food pressed upon them and a sturdy shelter quickly built. Beyond that, the weyrfolk quickly erected a waterwheel and a crafty set of pumps to continuously suck the air out of the mine, built tracks, and assembled ore carts to haul out the ore.

The actual mining, however, fell to just Toldur and Cristov. And while they managed to produce a steady amount of firestone, both were depressingly aware that it was much less than the High Reaches, let alone the other five Weyrs, needed just for practice.

Tarik yelped and twisted over in his bed the second time a foot kicked him, not too gently, in the shoulder. The light of a low glow dimly lit the tent.

“You!” Tarik growled as he made out the figure towering over him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to renew our contract,” Tenim answered, his eyes glinting green in the glow’s light.

“I’ve lost everything and you want—” Tarik’s protests were cut off in a gasp as Tenim dropped his hands around Tarik’s throat and squeezed tightly.

He lifted the miner’s head by the neck, his face nearly touching Tarik’s. Tenim watched emotionlessly as Tarik’s frantic efforts to free himself and gain breath grew feebler and feebler. Finally, as Tarik’s fight for his life was reduced to no more than a frantic look in his eyes, Tenim let go and threw Tarik back onto his cot.

As the miner lay gasping in rasping breaths, Tenim whispered to him calmly, “Everything? Think again.”

He glanced around, found a folding chair, pulled it up, and sat down close to Tarik’s head.

“I hear that the dragonriders are desperate for this firestone,” Tenim said. “I’m sure that they’d pay more for it than Cromcoal.”

“D’gan pays nothing,” Tarik said, his voice still hoarse from Tenim’s crushing grip.

“So? Aren’t there other Weyrs?”

“He knows how much we’re mining,” Tarik replied warily. “There’s only so much a person can do in a day.”

“In a day,” Tenim agreed. “What about a night?”

Tarik considered the notion. “The workers would tire out too quickly. He’d notice.”

“Then we get more workers,” Tenim replied.

“And the food?”

“They can share with the others,” Tenim said.

“D’gan barely provides enough,” Tarik protested. “If we halve that, the workers will die.”

“I don’t believe I care,” Tenim told him. “How soon can you have your first shipment?”

“Shipment?”

“My dray carries two tonnes,” Tenim informed him. “When should I bring it by?”

“But—the workers!” Tarik protested.

“Surely D’gan doesn’t collect every day,” Tenim said in a tone that was almost reasonable. “I’m sure you could spare some firestone before I bring you additional help. Anyway,” he added with a shrug, “I’ll need some money to help in acquiring your additional aid. Shall we say in two days’ time?”

At those words, Tarik’s mind began to work furiously. How long had Tenim been working on his plan? How long had he been watching Tarik’s camp? Did he know that D’gan came for firestone no more than twice in a sevenday?

Another thought caused Tarik to ask, “How can you get a dray here? There’s no road.”

When Tenim didn’t answer, Tarik added, “Where did you get a dray?”

Tenim smiled, touching the side of his nose. “Don’t ask questions unless you’re willing to live with the answer.”

Tarik shuddered unwillingly and remained silent.

“I’ll see you in two days,” Tenim said and, turning on his heel, headed toward the door.

“Wait!” Tarik called out, ignoring the pain of his raw throat. Tenim paused but did not turn back as Tarik said, “For a tonne a day, I’ll need eight strong men.”

Tenim waved a hand in mocking acknowledgment and disappeared into the night.

Tarik spent the day alternately flogging his workers mercilessly for extra firestone and hoping that his encounter with Tenim had merely been a nightmare. By nightfall the workers had managed to produce only an extra three hundredweight. The next day was no better. Darkness found Tarik nervously pacing in his tent, his dinner uneaten. Two workers were in the stockades, their parched and swollen tongues lolling in their heads, as a lesson to the others.

A loud noise caused Tarik to jump as something was thrown in his tent. He dived out the door, intent on catching the miscreant, only to find his legs taken out from underneath him. He fell heavily, the breath knocked out of him. A hand covered his mouth. Tarik’s eyes found its owner.

“Hello,” Tenim told him softly, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Is everything ready?”

Tarik nodded.

“Good,” Tenim said, releasing his grip and stepping back from Tarik. He gestured expansively in the dark. “My dray is on the far side of that hill, next to your firestone.”

“We can’t move two tonnes that far by ourselves,” Tarik protested.

Tenim smiled a big toothy smile at him. “I promised you I would bring help.”

Tenim’s “help” was a disheveled crew of young teens and children.

“They won’t last long,” Tarik complained as he bullied the new arrivals into hauling the heavy sacks of firestone into the dray.

Tenim smiled at him. “Then I’ll get more.”

“Get ’em older,” Tarik snapped. Instantly he regretted it: Tenim’s fist landed at the point of his jaw and sent him flying.

“I give the orders, old man,” Tenim said to Tarik’s sprawled form. He gestured for Tarik to get up. Rubbing his jaw, Tarik rose again.

“Hurry them up,” Tenim told him. “I’ll want to leave before the second moon rises.”

Tarik’s angry protest died stillborn as he caught the deadly look in Tenim’s eyes. Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded swiftly.

Two hours later, Tenim rumbled out of sight in the fully loaded workdray, leaving his ten recruits in Tarik’s care.

By the end of a sevenday, frantic in his efforts to meet both D’gan’s and Tenim’s unreasonable demands, Tarik was a hollow-eyed wreck of a man.

“Your workers are slacking off,” D’gan complained as he surveyed the worksite. “Aren’t they getting enough sleep?”

“It’s their nerves, my lord,” Tarik told him. “They are afraid of an explosion.”

“Hmph,” D’gan grunted in response to the explanation. He waved toward the small group of new hands he’d found. “Perhaps these six will help.”

Tarik scanned the group with little hope. He spotted one small body flopped on the ground and pointed. “I’m not sure he’ll last all that long, my lord.”

“We spotted him on our way here,” D’gan said dismissively. “He was extra. Use him as you wish.”

Spotted him? Tarik walked over to the unconscious form, half hoping and half fearing that it was Tenim. Instead it was a much smaller teen. Tarik sighed deeply and then, to cover his reaction, asked, “Where was he when you found him?”

D’gan glowered at him until Tarik recognized his gaffe and corrected himself, saying, “I mean, where was he when you found him, my lord?”

“One of my riders found him near a river not far from here,” D’gan said. “It looks like he’d tangled with something or someone a while back.” He nudged the slumped body reflectively with his boot, adding, “He’s got deep scars that are healed and signs of broken bones.”

“Did he not say where he was from?” Tarik asked, careful not to put the tone of his real question—“Are you sure he was Shunned?”—into his voice.

“He doesn’t talk,” D’gan replied. “We think he’ll recover. And if not, well, he’ll still be able to work for you.”

For a little while, Tarik thought to himself grimly. His eyes strayed to a line of mounds on the other side of his valley, particularly the three fresh mounds of the youngsters who’d died the previous night.

“Can we get more provisions to care for him, my lord?”

D’gan sneered at him. “More provisions? You are too wasteful as it is.”

“I was just thinking,” Tarik persisted, “that it would be wasteful to have to spend time burying the lad when with a few more supplies we could get some work out of him.”

“Mmm, you’ve a point,” D’gan admitted. With a wave of his hand he tossed the matter aside. “Give my wingman your requirements and we’ll see.”

Tarik took D’gan’s words for a dismissal and was relieved to deal with D’gan’s second, a reasonable man who asked few questions.

Still, it was a distraction having to remember every jot and tittle needed to run the mines; he made a note to himself to find someone to act as scribe.

It was a sevenday before the injured lad recovered. He still couldn’t speak, but Tarik was pleased to discover that the lad could write and immediately set him to work compiling the lists of supplies needed to run the mines.

The extra help was not enough to relieve Tarik’s worries. D’gan’s constant demands and Tenim’s nocturnal visits kept him jittery and on edge.

“Who’s this?” Tenim asked when he spotted the silent lad keeping pace beside Tarik.

“Someone the dragonmen dumped on me,” Tarik replied with a shrug. “He helps me manage supplies.”

Tenim peered at the lad for a moment longer in the dark night, then ignored him, turning back to Tarik. “Why not put him in the mines with the others?”

“Because between you and D’gan, I’m managing over thirty men—” There was a note of pride in his voice. “—and I need help with the records.”

“Suit yourself,” Tenim said. “But you’d better be shorting D’gan this one’s share of the firestone, not me.”

“The lad’s saved me so much time, I’m thinking of opening another shaft.”

“Another shaft?” Tenim asked, looking askance. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’ll need to if I’m to meet your demands.”

“If you do, then D’gan will get suspicious.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Tarik protested angrily. “There are so many working now that I’m afraid they’ll trip over each other and cause an explosion. And you know what that would mean.”

Tenim cocked his head thoughtfully. It was a moment before he replied, “Yes, that would be a tragedy wouldn’t it?

“Do you know,” he went on, his eyes glinting in the dark, “I think you should have four tonnes of firestone ready for me when I get back.”

“Four tonnes?” Tarik repeated in amazement. He spluttered, “But—but—”

“I have to guard my investment,” Tenim told him calmly. “It’s important that I have a reserve in case something happens to my stockpile.”

“Stockpile? I thought you had a buyer.”

“Several,” Tenim lied cheerfully. “Which is why I have a stockpile.” He nodded curtly to Tarik, saying, “So. Four tonnes in two days’ time.” With that, he turned away, ignoring all of the inarticulate noises coming from Tarik.

It was easy for Tenim to do so because he was busily plotting. How much would he get if there was no supply of fresh firestone? How much would his stockpile be worth then?

It had surprised him to discover how difficult it was to find a buyer for his firestone, given how all the other Weyrs had complained about D’gan’s stinginess. Tenim had been convinced that it would be easy, and profitable, to sell firestone, so he was much surprised to discover that neither was the case. In fact, Tenim had considered abandoning the effort altogether and switching to a different venture. But now…

Tenim returned to his calculations. How much could he get for a hundredweight of firestone?

“Firestone?” Sidar repeated with a horrified look on his face. “You’ve got firestone?”

Tenim didn’t move a muscle. He’d come to Sidar after exhausting all his other resources. The man was known to cheat, steal, and murder for his profit—methods Tenim preferred to reserve to himself—but when he paid, he paid well.

“Where do you store it?” Sidar asked, looking around the room carefully. “The stuff explodes with the merest contact with water.”

“Like this?” Tenim asked, throwing a small pebble into one of the cauldrons hanging over the hearth. There was a small hiss, followed by a bluish flare.

“Shells, are you mad?” Sidar asked, jumping to his feet. “If the dragonriders catch you, you’ll be Shunned for certain.”

“So will you,” Tenim said in bored tones. “In fact, one must wonder how you’ve done so well as to avoid it so far.”

“Indeed, particularly when one considers the full implications,” Sidar agreed, his lips twisted into a small smile as he countered Tenim’s implied threat.

Tenim waved aside the issue, saying, “The question remains—how much will you pay?”

“Pay?” Sidar asked incredulously. “For something that might explode at any moment? Are you mad?”

“No,” Tenim said. “It’s not just that firestone bursts into flame so easily—it’s that firestone’s the only thing that dragons can use to flame Thread.”

“They can always get more,” Sidar replied sourly.

“And what if they couldn’t get more?” Tenim asked. “What would firestone be worth then?”

“All Pern depends upon the dragons,” Sidar replied. His tone made it clear that Tenim had overstepped his bounds.

Tenim shrugged. “Only when Thread is in the sky,” he replied, and glanced up to the ceiling. “The Red Star is still a long way off.”

“All the more reason for the dragons to train now,” Sidar replied. He rose, indicating that the discussion was at an end. “No, your best bet is to return those goods whence they came and get far away before—”

“Before what?” Tenim interjected, his arm twitching slightly in the dim light. Suddenly he had a dagger in his hand. He toyed with it and glanced up innocently at Sidar asking, “Would there be a problem?”

“Leave,” Sidar growled undisturbed by Tenim’s sudden display of a weapon. “Leave before you find yourself as lifeless as your wares.”

“It was Tenim,” Halla declared as she stood up from her examination of the footprints surrounding the tracks of the stolen workdray. They were at a trader camp just north of Keogh, a smaller hold to the southwest of Crom.

“Are you sure?” Veran asked.

“He taught me how to track,” Halla told him.

“Did he teach you how to steal, too?”

“He tried,” Halla said. “I didn’t like it much.” She cast her gaze in the direction of the tracks. “It looks like he was heading due north.”

“We didn’t find anything that way,” Veran told her.

“He would have found a way to hide the tracks,” Halla said.

“There are no roads in that direction; he couldn’t get far.”

Halla nodded to indicate that she heard him, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Why would Tenim steal a workdray? She could understand his desire to take one of the brightly colored domicile drays for himself or his profit, but what would he need a workdray for?

“—that workdray could only haul two tonnes at best,” Veran was saying. “We’ll absorb the loss. It won’t hurt as much as if he’d taken a larger one, and it wasn’t even loaded.”

“Not loaded?” Halla repeated bemusedly.

“In that respect we were lucky; there was a larger one right next to it, fully loaded with Cromcoal.”

What would Tenim want to haul away, if not Cromcoal? Halla wondered. What could be more valuable than that?

“Could I get some supplies?” Halla asked, turning back from her inspection of the distant trail after being certain to memorize sufficient landmarks.

“Supplies?” Veran asked. “What are you going to do?”

“I think I’ll see what Tenim is doing,” Halla told him.

Veran looked dubious. “That doesn’t sound much like what I heard Lord Fenner ask of you.”

“How will the traders react when the word gets around that someone like Tenim has stolen one of your drays?”

“Word’s already gotten around,” Veran confessed. Sheepishly he added, “And we traders are none too happy about it.”

“So how will the traders feel when they hear that the dray was tracked down by someone else like Tenim and returned to its rightful owners?”

Veran gave her a long, thoughtful long. “Are you sure you’ve only twelve Turns?”

Halla shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been told,” she said. “I’m not certain.”

“Not certain,” Veran muttered to himself. “That’s not right.”

Halla nodded, saying, “That’s what Lord Fenner said, too.”

“He’s a good man, Lord Fenner,” Veran said by way of agreement. He looked down at Halla and frowned. “Are you sure you’ll be able to track him?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And what if he finds you?”

“He won’t,” Hall declared, trying to sound calm. “I’m a better tracker.”

Veran looked at her a long time before responding, with a sigh, “I just hope you’re a better tracker than you are a liar.”

Halla smiled up at him and patted his arm. “I am, honestly.” She paused a moment, then asked, “So, can I get those supplies?”

“You want to leave now?”

“Soonest is best,” Halla said. She gestured to the trail. “The trail’s days old; I can’t wait—it might get wiped out.”

Veran shook his head reluctantly. “Maybe you’d better reconsider. There’s been rain since that dray was stolen; there probably aren’t any tracks.”

“I’ve got to try,” Halla replied.

“It was a good idea of yours, my lord, to send the extra supplies,” Tarik told D’gan when next they met, knowing full well that it had been the other way around but now recognizing the need to flatter the Weyrleader. He put an arm around his aide’s shoulder. “This one has turned out to be a real timesaver when it comes to toting up tallies.”

“Has he?” D’gan drawled in icy tones. “And here I’d hoped to see him get more firestone to protect Pern.”

Tarik blanched. “Well, my lord, in a way he has. By freeing me up to work more on mining chores than on numbers, I’ve been able to up our output.”

“Really?” D’gan turned away from the busy mine shaft to the firestone dump opposite it where weyrlings were carefully loading up sacks full of firestone and disappearing between. “I could scarcely believe that from the amount of firestone you’re storing.”

“We need more bags,” Tarik told him. Beside him the silent youth gave him an odd look, which vanished before either Tarik or D’gan could comment upon it.

“More bags?” D’gan repeated. “We brought in more than enough bags.”

“Well, some of them have ripped,” Tarik told him nervously.

“Have someone repair them,” D’gan ordered. He waved a hand at the silent youth. “Him, for example.”

Tarik’s mouth worked up a protest, but under D’gan’s glare, he never voiced it, instead bobbing his head obediently.

“Seeing as you’re doing so much better,” D’gan continued, “I think we should expect more firestone from this mine.”

He looked around appraisingly. “You’ve done well,” the dragonrider admitted. “I think you’ll have no problem producing another tonne before we next arrive.”

Tarik’s face went white. Feebly, he stammered, “My lord?”

D’gan nodded firmly. “Yes, I think that will do nicely.” He turned to look Tarik in the eye. “My men need a good full Weyr training, so we’ll have the extra sacks for you.”

“Yes, my lord,” was all Tarik could say in response. Irritably he waved at the teen standing at his side. “You, go start fixing those torn firestone sacks.”

“And be sure to do a good job,” D’gan added.

The youth gave Tarik an inscrutable look, then nodded, handed Tarik his slates, and headed toward the shed where the firestone sacks were stored.

Neither D’gan nor Tarik paid the youth any attention while the firestone was being ferried away. D’gan turned down Tarik’s feeble offer of refreshment with a sneering, “We send you the swill that’s deemed unfit for dragonriders. Why do you think I’d want some now?”

Finally the last of the sacks were gone and D’gan took his leave, allowing an exhausted Tarik a few hours of respite. Irritably he sought out the silent boy and thrust a stack of new slates at him. “If you didn’t keep count of what the dragonriders took, I’ll tan your hide.”

The silent youth nodded and quickly made new marks on the slates he’d been handed. Disgusted at the lad’s diligence, Tarik cuffed his head—“Just to keep you on your toes.”

To his surprise, the blow rocked the small youth. Slates fell everywhere—some shattered.

“Now you’ve done it,” Tarik growled as the lad tried desperately to collect all the slates. “If you don’t have this fixed by dusk, you’ll spend the night in the stocks, do you hear me?”

With a sullen look, the boy nodded and scampered off toward his work tent.

Alone for a moment, Tarik heaved a deep sigh. He looked around him: The once green valley was now a dry, dirty bowl dotted only with stone sheds, tents, and tracks for the carts—all his.

A screech from the sky brought Tarik’s attention back from his musings. He looked up and picked out a black dot moving swiftly in the dark sky above him. Tenim was on his way. It was time to rouse the night crew.

Wearily he turned and trudged off to the secret meeting place. He was halfway there before he paused, swearing, and turned back. He’d forgotten his scribe!

Tarik stood torn between being late and doing without the lad’s handy services, before finally muttering, “I don’t need him.”

He failed to notice a small figure lurking in the shadows beside him. As Tarik turned back to his trail, the figure silently followed him.

“You’re late,” Tenim snarled when Tarik arrived. He looked around. “Where’s your shadow?”

“Huh?” Tarik muttered. “Oh, the lad!” he exclaimed when enlightenment dawned. Hastily, he lied, “In the stocks.”

“Good,” Tenim said. “I never liked him. You should consider keeping him there—he knows too much.”

“He’s useful,” Tarik protested. “He saves me a lot of work.”

“He could tell D’gan all about us,” Tenim responded, “and all you worry about is your comfort.”

“He won’t talk,” Tarik replied. “Shells, he can’t talk.”

“Can’t talk?” Tenim asked, cocking his head in sudden interest.

“Not a sound,” Tarik said. “At first I thought it was from whatever hurt him. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Tenim grew quite still as his thoughts outpaced him. Could this be the egg carrier come back to life?

“No matter,” he said aloud. He would merely kill the boy again, along with everyone else. Yes, that would work. Tidily. He turned to Tarik, another dead man, and said, “Have you got my firestone?”

“Our firestone,” Tarik corrected. “Of course.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Tenim replied. He pointed into the shadows. Tarik could just barely make out the outline of a workdray, a patch of darkness in the shadows. “Get your lads to fill it up.”

Tarik nodded. With a whistle, he roused the children Tenim had provided. He unhitched the whip he kept looped off his belt and gave it a loud crack. Shadows shuffled out around them. Suddenly the dim light of a glow could be seen shining eerily in the night like a dragon’s giant eye.

“Bring the dray over and start loading,” Tarik called. He turned back to Tenim. “They’ll be no use for any other work tonight.”

“No use, why?” Tenim asked. He pointed to Tarik’s whip. “Can’t you use that?”

“Not in the mines,” Tarik replied. A pair of youths passed by grunting as they hauled a full firestone sack between them. “It might make sparks.”

“And sparks are bad?”

“Of course,” Tarik said. “In fact, there’s so much gas building up that we’ll have to get more pumps soon or risk an explosion.” He frowned, adding, “We’ve had a few close calls already; workers have been passing out from the fumes, and we’ve had to wait until we can fan in more fresh air.”

Tenim said nothing in response, preferring to watch the dray’s loading. The conversation died off until the dray was loaded and the workbeasts, gaunt old things, were hitched up.

“I’ll see you soon,” Tenim told Tarik.

“You’ll not need more firestone?” Tarik asked in surprise.

“No,” Tenim told him. “I think you’ve done enough.”

A look of relief, almost gratitude, crossed Tarik’s face, plainly visible in the light of Pern’s two moons. Then relief was replaced by suspicion. “When will you be back?”

“Soon,” Tenim repeated, flicking the reins to urge the workbeasts on. As the dray moved off, Tarik resignedly turned back to the work of the dawning day.

When he arrived back at the camp, he banged on the work tent where he’d last seen his scribe.

“Boy! Wake up, boy! It’s time for work,” he shouted, determined that as soon as he had everyone working hard enough, he would allow himself a well-deserved rest.

When, after several moments, the boy did not stir, Tarik stuck his head inside the tent, shouting, “Boy, you’d best hope—” But the tent was empty.

Tarik’s swearing was enough to rouse the rest of the camp.

The boy, who had been following Tarik earlier in the evening, watched Tenim’s departure carefully, noting the direction the young man took. He was about to return to the camp when he noticed that Tenim had stopped. Why?

Curious, he silently moved toward the workdray. He stopped abruptly when he spotted a figure walking back toward him. Tenim. He was carrying something on his arm.

“Remember how I taught you, Grief.” Tenim’s voice drifted clearly on the early morning air. “The water buckets.”

They were on the hill overlooking the firestone camp and the dam that had been one of Tarik’s earliest projects. Tenim stepped closer. The boy recognized the bird on his arm and the partly filled firestone sack hanging from his shoulder.

The boy started running, but he was already too late. In a moment, the falcon was in the sky, zooming down the valley to the carefully placed table outside the mine shaft with its half-full buckets of drinking water. It would take nothing for the falcon to jostle the buckets, tip them over, and have their contents seep into the mine.

But that was only part of Tenim’s plan. The second part became apparent when he started lobbing rocks of firestone at the base of the dam. At first they merely sizzled, but soon the air was full of flame.

The boy slammed into Tenim, knocking him off his feet, but the older youth was larger and stronger. Tenim recovered quickly, lashing out with balled fists. Still the boy persisted, even as the dam grew weaker from Tenim’s earlier firestone bombings. Taking a moment, Tenim threw the rest of the firestone sack into the water now streaming from the dam and then turned back to his opponent.

“How many times do I have to kill you?” he asked, his fists slamming into the boy’s stomach.

Behind him, the firestone exploded and Tenim heard the sudden rush of water. The dam had burst.

The boy stood rooted for one horrified moment as a wave of water rushed down the hillside, heading straight for the firestone dump. His distraction lasted long enough for Tenim to land the boy a knockout blow.

Tenim stared down at the unconscious boy and twitched to release his hidden knife. Two explosions, nearly simultaneous, rocked the morning air and he turned around in time to catch sight of the fireball rising where the firestone dump had been. From the mine entrance came a huge gout of flame and the more distant rumble of an explosion. A worried look crossed his face as he scanned the skies, to be relieved when he spotted the small form of his falcon racing back toward him.

He slid his knife into his belt and raised his arm for the falcon. Grief landed, and he quickly tied her jesses around his arm and placed her hood on her head. Only then did he look back down at the sprawled boy, a considering look on his face.

“I think I’ll leave you,” Tenim said finally. “That way, they’ll think you did it.”

With that, he strode off, firm in the belief that he had just made himself the richest, most powerful man on Pern.

The low rumble woke Halla. She jumped out of her sleeping roll in time to spot a brilliant light in the distance. She was only kilometers away.

“Firestone,” Halla declared. She’d taken to talking to herself, having not realized how much she appreciated the comforting chatter of the children who had always been in her care. “It has to be.”

Now she knew why Tenim had stolen an empty workdray: to carry firestone. Had he been mining by himself? No, that didn’t make sense. And hadn’t Veran told her that D’gan was getting firestone from some unknown place? Judging by the sound she’d heard, that place was no more.

She broke her camp, hoisted her pack, and set off in the direction of the noise, determined to search for survivors.

Pellar woke slowly and kept his eyes closed, listening for a long while. In the distance he heard the cries of the camp’s survivors. Closer, he only heard the sounds of morning. He kept his eyes closed while he gingerly tested each of his limbs. Satisfied that this time nothing was broken, he carefully sat up, wincing as the movement strained the bruise on his jaw.

“How many times do I have to kill you?” The question echoed again in his mind as his memories flooded back.

He remembered fighting the icy stream, sliding backward over a huge fall, and waking up much later, leg and arm broken, his head resting on the stream bank. Shivering with cold, he’d found the strength to pull himself out of the water before he’d collapsed again in exhaustion.

How long he’d stayed there on the edge of death, Pellar couldn’t recall. He’d survived on worms, trundlebugs, insects, whatever he could stuff into his mouth.

Once he’d fought off a wild dog determined to have him for dinner, another time he’d survived a wherry’s aerial attack by fending it off with fallen branches.

But it was his memories of Mikal’s teachings that finally healed him, although it took a terribly long time. He’d sought out the healing rocks from the streambed, looking for quartz above all. Carefully, he’d placed the crystals as he’d been trained by Mikal, aligning their vibrations to help his healing.

As soon as he could, he’d found stringy runners and shorter branches to fashion a splint for his arm and then for his leg. He’d just barely survived winter, huddled in a cave and eating raw fish. When spring came, he set traps, and—when they were full—he ate well. Slowly, his strength returned.

But he could remember only flashes of his past.

When the dragonriders had discovered him, he was initially glad, thinking he’d found aid. But they’d dropped him off here and the cold of between had helped settle an irritating cold deep in his chest. It had taken several days of rest before he’d recovered.

He remembered being irritated when he first met Tarik, although he had to feel gratitude for the other’s care of him. And he’d felt insanely angry when he’d first seen Tenim, and only caution had prevented him from attacking the larger youth at that time.

But it was only at the sight of the falcon that Pellar had remembered everything. The falcon that had killed Chitter. Pellar’s face clouded in memory. Chitter had saved his life.

For what? Pellar wondered bitterly, feeling well enough to stand and survey the wreckage of the valley below. His eyes strayed back to the green dale in which he was standing. There—a leaf good for burns. There—a leaf to reduce pain. He didn’t spot any numbweed.

As swiftly as his sore body would move, Pellar started harvesting healing leaves and roots.

Provisioned, he set off at a trot to the camp. As he grew closer he saw, to his horror, that some of the injured were badly burned. Some would not survive the day. He had no fellis juice to ease their pain. Most of the survivors were either lying on the ground in exhaustion, or walking around listlessly. He needed more help.

Could he still speak to dragons?

Hurth, he ventured, I need help.

The response was immediate, worried, and full of that special draconic warmth. Where are you?

Pellar scanned the valley and closed his eyes, building the image in his mind.

We come, Hurth said.

The immediate response was a tonic to Pellar and he lengthened his stride. He was barely at the first of the tents when the sky above him filled with dragons.

He waved frantically at the large bronze he knew to be Hurth.

“Pellar!” D’vin shouted from his perch atop Hurth’s neck, his face alight with joy. “We’d given you up for dead!” He paused and surveyed the scene around him. “What happened?”

D’vin jumped down from Hurth’s neck and then turned back to help down the group of weyrfolk that had ridden with him.

Pellar waved his hands and groped around his neck to show D’vin that he had nothing to write with. He turned, holding one hand out to highlight the scene surrounding them, but already it had changed as weyrfolk and dragonriders bustled about, providing aid to the burned and dazed survivors.

“Does anyone have a slate?” D’vin shouted over the growing din. A young woman dressed in riding gear raced over to him, her long black hair highlighted by one white streak.

“Thank you, Sonia,” D’vin told her with a smile that went to his eyes. She smiled back at him, turned, and waved good-bye over her shoulder as she sped off in search of more work. D’vin handed Pellar the slate and waited patiently while the boy wrote his message. When he was done, he handed the slate to D’vin who read, “Tenim. Destroyed the mine. Stealing firestone.”

“He’s stealing firestone?” D’vin asked in amazement. “What for?”

“To sell,” Pellar wrote in response.

“Sell?” D’vin repeated in surprise. He shook off the question, asking instead, “Was this D’gan’s mine?”

When Pellar nodded, D’vin made a face. “I’ll have to let him know.” He gestured toward a green dragon hovering high over the valley. “Fortunately, P’lel says we’re not too far from our borders.”

Pellar gestured for the slate and wrote hastily, “I should go; D’gan’s men brought me here, put me to work.”

“He’s been putting men in the mines?” D’vin asked, brows furrowing angrily.

Pellar nodded in confirmation and wrote, “Tenim brought him children to work a second shift.”

“Children!” D’vin exclaimed in shock, adding thoughtfully, “Not that you’re all that much older.”

The sky grew thick once more with dragons.

“That’ll be D’gan,” D’vin judged, looking up at the arriving dragons. He looked back to Pellar. “I think you’d best leave until I can calm him down.”

Pellar nodded and strode off, heading toward the ruined dam. A new resolution had entered his thoughts: Rather than avoid D’gan, he would track Tenim.

Halla arrived at the outskirts of the valley in time to see a second group of dragonriders appear. She stared at them for a long time, lost in their beauty, before she brought her attention back to the goings-on in the valley. Dragonriders and weyrfolk were attending the injured. In the center of it all, Telgar’s Weyrleader was talking to a dragonrider wearing High Reaches colors. With a start, Halla recognized the High Reaches rider as the one she’d met at the Gather.

Carefully, she made her way down the valley, hoping to pick up on the conversation without being noticed.

She need not have bothered. D’gan was shouting so loudly that Halla could easily hear his every word from two dragonlengths away.

“My mine!” D’gan shouted. “My workers! I’ve no stomach for High Reaches poaching them.”

“We came to their aid,” D’vin replied, his voice firm and not as loud. Halla thought that for all his deferential stance, the High Reaches rider was very angry and only just holding on to his temper. “And I informed you as soon as I could.”

“You did, did you?” D’gan yelled in response. “Not before you carted off a load of firestone, though. I would have never thought that I’d see the day when one Weyr stole from another—”

“My lord,” D’vin interrupted curtly. “We are dragonmen. We came to offer aid, not to steal.” He paused as he considered D’gan’s words. “And why would we cart off firestone when we can fly it off?”

“I don’t know,” D’gan declared petulantly. “All I know is that there are tracks leading off in the direction of your lands.”

D’vin was silent for a moment—communing with his dragon, Halla guessed. “My dragon has found the tracks you mentioned. We shall investigate.”

“You will investigate?” D’gan roared in response. “This happened on Telgar land—we’ll investigate.”

“As the dray is now in High Reaches territory, tracking it becomes our problem,” D’vin replied. He held up a placating hand to prevent D’gan’s next outburst. “However, we’d be delighted to accept your offer of help.”

D’gan spluttered for a moment before saying, “Fine! You find them.”

D’vin nodded curtly. After a moment, D’gan said, “Well, why aren’t you going?”

D’vin looked at him in surprise. “Your miners still need aid.”

“Leave them,” D’gan said. “That’s Telgar business, and we’ll handle it.”

D’vin’s reluctance was obvious to D’gan, who ignored the fact that he had brought none of his weyrfolk, and that most of his riders were still hovering over the valley on their dragons.

“I said we’ll handle it,” the Telgar Weyrleader repeated, tapping his fingers testily against his riding helmet. “You may leave now, Wingleader.”

D’vin bit back a bitter response and settled for bringing himself erect and bowing to D’gan. “Weyrleader.”

D’gan nodded back and waved D’vin away.

The High Reaches folk were slow to leave their charges, their concern visible on their faces, but in short order they were arrayed once more behind the dragonriders who had brought them. The dragons leapt aloft, formed the wing, and vanished between.

Halla was already heading away from the valley by the time the High Reaches weyrfolk departed. She’d learned what she needed to know. As she turned north and west, scanning for the heavily loaded workdray’s tracks, she reflected that she could leave Tenim to the dragonriders, that this was not what Lord Fenner had asked her to do, and that Tenim was much larger and more dangerous than she. But she would find him. A cry from one of the injured behind her strengthened her resolve. She lengthened her stride.