3

Southern Continent, PP 11.04.06

“There has to have been someone going through the sack,” Mardra, Weyrwoman of Southern Weyr, insisted. She stared accusingly at Toric, Southern’s holder.

“Couldn’t the fastening have loosened during the journey, Weyrwoman?” Saneter asked, though the elderly harper’s desire to placate the Weyrwoman was stretched as thin as the holder’s temper.

“Then why, I ask you, why—” She set her goblet down so hard on the table beside her that the stem broke and the remaining wine dripped onto the floor. “Now, look what you’ve made me do!” She beckoned to a fat drudge pretending to tidy the surface of the sideboard. “Quickly! Mop it up before it attracts a horde of fly-bys.”

If Saneter hoped that the mishap would distract Mardra, he was quickly disappointed. She never lost an opportunity to aggravate Toric.

When Saneter had been posted to the Southern Hold, Master Robinton had briefed him fully on the situation.

“You’ve been chosen for more reasons than merely trying to ease your joint-ail, Master Saneter,” the Masterharper had said. “I can rely on your discretion and soothing manner, as well as your common sense, to keep me informed of any untoward occurrences.” The Masterharper had paused significantly, his clear eyes meeting Saneter’s. “The Southern Weyr was actually initiated some ten Turns before Threadfall, though that is not general knowledge, and volunteer holders went to assist them. When this Pass started, the Southern Weyr and Hold were temporarily abandoned. Then, as you know, with T’bor as Weyrleader and the ill-fated Kylara as his Weyrwoman, it became an excellent situation where injured dragons and riders could recuperate. You know the more recent history, I’m sure, with the discontent of some of the Oldtimers, and the exile of the incorrigible dissidents to Southern where they could do little harm.

“Toric, who was holding rather an extensive area, elected to stay on. He’s rather well situated, mind you, though there were restrictions put on both the Oldtimer dragonriders who were exiled and any commerce between north and south.” The Masterharper cleared his throat and gave Saneter yet another enigmatic look.

Saneter had been so relieved that he could continue to function as a harper, even in the south, that he would have been willing to do much more than exercise his diplomatic talents.

“Toric puts up with Mardra, T’ton, T’kul—who is, in my opinion, the worst of the lot,” Robinton went on. “He’d have no such autonomy in the north, but I will want to hear what sort of friction develops … if you understand me, Saneter?”

“I do, Master Robinton. I believe I do.”

Saneter often chided himself for his innocence. But a man learned as he lived. Once, when Saneter was just settling in to Southern Hold, Toric’s lovely young sister, Sharra, had mentioned that Mardra fancied her brother, but that Toric wanted nothing to do with the Weyrwoman. Mardra’s attitude toward Toric reflected a deep and vicious antipathy, a desire to humiliate and demean.

“I ask you why, Toric, my queen fire-lizard, who is far more reliable than a watchwher, distinctly informs me that someone was there and crept away.” Having made her point she glared at the Holder, who said nothing, though Saneter could see his fingers alternately clenching into fists and releasing into grasping motions. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Toric,” she added, leaning forward on her couch, her bleary eyes and features missing nothing of his attitude. When Toric moved his head fractionally, Saneter could see her deciding on a further insult.

With a harper’s appreciation for valor, Saneter thought sadly of that glorious day when the Oldtimers’ Five Weyrs had arrived. Every man, woman, and child on Pern, saved from certain death by the reinforcements, had been grateful to their wings. He had been a harper at Telgar and had seen Mardra and T’ton, the Fort Weyrleaders, a handsome pair, so pleased with their reception. T’kul, High Reaches Weyrleader, had appeared to be an energetic and knowledgeable leader, if slightly condescending to F’lar and Lessa. After four Turns of dealing with the disaffected Oldtimers, Saneter found their decline increasingly painful to deal with. Mardra had become a raddled, blowsy old woman, constantly wine-sotted; and T’kul, stringy with age and potbellied, spent his time endlessly recounting spectacular Falls which he had seemingly charred with only his dragon Salth’s aid.

“Look at me,” Mardra repeated, command still ringing in her voice, her eyes piercingly intent on the holder. Again his head moved fractionally, and Saneter, judging by the furious set of the Weyrwoman’s lips, suspected that Toric had adopted his very disconcerting habit of seeming to look right through her. “She saw someone. Someone who shouldn’t have been there. Someone who tampered with that sack. Find me that someone! I want to know what he or she took from that sack. Those were Crafthall tithes to this Weyr, and I hold you, all of you—” For the first time she glanced at the other Masters who had been summoned with Toric. “—responsible for any losses. Now hop it out of here!”

There was a murmur of righteous protest from the other Masters—farmer, fisher, herdsman, and tanner. Saneter, too, would have backed any retaliation. Craftsmen had the right to withdraw their services from a holder—and, by law, from a Weyr, though such an extreme action had never been recorded. The harper caught his breath, slightly frightened of the consequences of such an act—they were, after all, in the early years of the Pass—but just when he could no longer stand the suspense, Toric whirled and strode out of the Weyrhall, his heels thudding loudly against the wide floorboards. There was a hint of frightened relief on Mardra’s face. If she realized that there were limits past which she could not go, then the morning had had a positive outcome. Saneter cleared his throat, gave Mardra a brief nod, and followed Toric. If the others could just contain their fury long enough to get out of the Weyr Hall, they would have brushed out of the incident without irrevocable damage. All for some trivial bauble!

Saneter did not let his breath out until he reached the hall entry, just as Toric strode down the broad steps without seeming to touch them. Quickly the other Masters overtook the harper, as much to get out of the Weyrwoman’s presence as to support Toric’s example. Saneter did not consider himself a choleric man, but he was as livid as Toric. The farther the holder got from the Weyrhall clearing the louder his curses grew. By the time he reached the well-trod path skirting the cliffs around the beach, he was bellowing out inventive damnations, his voice rising above the complaints of the others.

“We’re here by choice, not tradition,” Gabred, the Masterfarmer, cried. “Even Kylara was better behaved than that twat!”

“I’d use her guts for bait if I thought fish would take it!” Osemore the Fisher said, his weatherworn hands closed into thick and dangerous fists. “Chain her to the beach and let the leeches eat her.”

“Old baggage,” was Maindy the Herdsman’s contribution. “Useless slug. Salt ’er, I would.”

“If only they didn’t ride dragons,” Torsten the Tanner said. He shuddered. He was as incensed by the incident as the others, but by temperament he was a cautious man. His words stemmed the flood of invective. When the wounded northern dragons had been quartered at Southern, the holders had become all too acquainted with the agony of a dragon whose rider had died, and the forlorn, gut-twisting keen of those that heralded the dragon’s suicide.

Though Saneter winced at the idea, he was grateful once again to Osemore. Dragonrider inviolability was deeply ingrained in them all—even a renegade holder like Toric. Which was why Toric had had to leave the Weyrhall before a total rupture of discipline occurred. But by Faranth’s First Egg, it had been close. If they had not been in a Pass—not that Southern’s dragonriders did more than mount a token flight.… Saneter shook his head, deploring the situation.

“Their shipments of who knows what arrive,” Toric began again in a savage tone, “dumped down by their dragons, and suddenly it’s my fault that one sack arrived open. She doesn’t even blinding know what was in it, much less if anything is missing. We’re summoned—summoned like apprentices—”

“More like drudges, at anyone’s beck and call,” Gabred put in sourly.

“To account for a possible, not provable, theft on the word of a fire-lizard? If she and that slovenly lot can’t keep track of what comes in and out of their Hall, why should I? And how? When I’m never informed of shipments or Weyr requirements unless they run out of something in the middle of one of their carousals.” Toric threw up both arms in his exasperation, hitting the fronds that draped gracefully to shade the path. He tore down branches and began shredding the leaves, needing some way to release his fury.

The last four Turns since the Oldtimers had been effectively exiled to Southern had been all too frequently punctuated with such scenes: the dragonriders demanding explanations for matters of which Toric had no knowledge whatsoever. There would come a day, the harper knew, when Toric would not respond to a summons. Saneter did not like to think about that day. The Oldtimers could not leave the south—and Toric would not.

The situation deeply distressed Saneter and his ingrained respect for the traditional values and duties. He did not understand why the Weyrleaders would want to replace Toric. The man was an excellent holder.

Unless the aim of those constant nuisance summonses and Mardra’s needling were being deliberately designed to force Toric out of the hold and replace him with someone more accommodating or obsequious. The Weyrleaders had misjudged Toric and his ambition in that case. Toric had long-ranging plans for his holding, more extensive than those of the Weyrleaders, who did not appreciate the potential of Southern’s bounty. Until just recently, the holder had seemed impervious to the demands and the pettiness, telling Saneter that it was easier to do whatever he was bid and get on with the next job. Toric had then shocked Saneter’s harper-trained sensibilities by remarking that the dragonriders would all be dying off soon enough, preferably before his patience with them was exhausted. But any residual loyalty Saneter had once felt had been totally compromised by the most recent episode. From then on the harper would support Toric completely, with no further comments about a holder’s duty to his Weyrleaders.

While Toric and his folk thrived in Southern, the Weyrleaders were visibly decaying. While Toric sent teams out to discover the extent of the southern lands, the dragonriders kept to their quarters, venturing no farther than the lake or the nearest beach to bathe their dragons.

Just then Toric stopped abruptly in the path, and the Masterfisherman tripped over his feet to halt, spreading out his arms to stop the others. Toric turned, eyes glinting narrowly with his fury, and made a scissoring motion with his hands.

“Anyone … anyone at all …” he said, jaw working as he let his angry green eyes fell on the hastily assembled work party. “Anyone”—he brought open hands together in a resounding smack—“who gives over fire-lizard eggs to Oldtimers gets thrown out of Southern. No excuse, no appeal. On the next boat north! Have I made myself plain?”

“I shall post a notice to that effect—” Saneter began, and then broke off. Why would Toric forbid an occupation that had earned the hold occasional marks? Fire-lizard eggs were in constant demand from northern traders and any seafolk pausing in Southern’s deep harbor. Surely not because Mardra’s little creature had played a part in this affair? But the moment was not right to question Toric; the holder had resumed his furious pace, the Craftmasters doing their best to keep up with him.

Saneter dropped back, as much because he wanted to absorb the meaning of that order as because there was no way he could keep that pace. He no longer had the energy he had once enjoyed, and despite the improvement the mild southern climate had made in the joint-ail in hip and shoulder, the exhilaration of anger was giving way to exhaustion. He mopped his face, sweating even in the shade of the leaf-canopied trace, and let his pounding heart and the thudding pulse in his temples subside to a calmer rhythm.

He wondered if he would send a message to the Masterharper about the latest uproar. Robinton already knew that Toric despised the Oldtimers; probably knew more about T’kul, Mardra, and the rest of the Oldtimers than Saneter ever would. Perhaps he ought to be informed about Toric’s new order. The amount of marks offered for the contents of a gold fire-lizard queen’s nest was more than most holders earned over three or four good Turns. Granted, not that many gold nests were generally located, but the demand for the creatures always seemed to increase. Well, they were more than pets, Saneter thought fondly, hoping his little bronze would perceive that he was no longer in Toric’s angry company and it was safe to return to his usual perch on the harper’s shoulder. He had also told Master Robinton that the Oldtimers were exacting far more than a normal tithe, and that the deliveries did not occur at the customary times or by the usual carriers: it had been moon-dark last night. And he had not seen a single dragon active that morning. But why would Toric forbid his holders to sell fire-lizard eggs to the Weyr?

On the other hand, Saneter decided, a long account of that day’s incident, when viewed in a calmer frame of mind, was nothing to bother the already burdened Masterharper with.

Mardra had sent them all to see that one sack in their delivery hung open. Saneter had looked closely enough to identify it as a northern weave, probably Nabolese. Certainly the hemp that closed the sack mouth was of Nabolese manufacture. There had been wine—one could smell the spill—souring in the hot sun. The Mastervintners of both Tillek and Benden sent more than a fair tithe of their pressings to the Southern Weyr, but then, Saneter thought uncharitably, Southern Weyr consumed far too much.

Another bellow—only Toric could roar like that—startled him into a limping jogtrot. Who under the sun had been stupid enough to add fuel to Toric’s rage? Saneter hurried along. And to think that the Masterharper had implied that Southern Hold would be a pleasant sinecure, with just enough activity to keep him from boredom. Well, boredom was the least of Saneter’s worries.

When he emerged into the clearing on the bluffs above the beach, he groaned. Two ships were anchoring, their decks plainly crowded with people and parcels. The last thing in the world Toric needed at that point was to deal with yet another shipment of useless northern discards. There might indeed be—there usually were—some useful workers with craft skills or general handiness, but far too many of those making the trip were as aimless as the Oldtimers were.

Yet, when Toric roared again, Saneter heard a glad note in the bellow, and the way the holder was making for the harbor steps, waving his arms over his head and yodeling, gave every appearance of welcome and pleasure. Quickly the harper walked across the intervening space just in time to see Toric, arching majestically in the air, dive from the high point of the cliff into the deep clear blue-green waters of the anchorage and swim with powerful strokes to the larger of the two ships. It flew Rampesi’s pennant.

“That’ll help cool him down,” a cheerful voice said at Saneter’s side. He looked over and saw Sharra, her fire-lizards chirping excitedly before they made a straight-line dash to the boat. “Hamian must be aboard.” She flashed her lovely smile at Saneter, and suddenly the morning was bearable again. “Remember? Osemore brought us a message that he was on his way from Telgar Smithcrafthall. My brother, an accredited Mastersmith!” She hugged herself, smiling with pride and anticipation. “Oh, Hamian has to be onboard. What was the old woman’s gripe this time? I ducked away when I saw him shredding mandamos.”

One of the others present would undoubtedly spread the story, but the harper had some respect for his position. As he watched Toric’s arms flashing in a vigorous crawl toward Rampesi’s ship and its passengers, he shook his head. “I hope he’s doing the right thing, luring people to the south. We aren’t getting the folk who’re settled and craft-trained. Mostly the holdless. And why are they holdless?” Saneter wondered if he dared slip away for the rest of the morning. As harper he really should not countenance the human importations, yet he knew how desperately Toric needed bodies to cut through the jungle growths, clear more land, and secure his ambitions.

“Toric won’t care, as long as they’re still breathing. Not if Hamian’s also aboard. I was wondering how on earth we were going to get him out of his black humor this time.” Sharra’s ability to cool her brother’s tempers was appreciated to the point where Southern holders dreaded her absence on forays into the wildness. She was, in her own way, as much of an original as her older brother, though her skill ran to healing rather than holding. She harvested the bounty of medicinal plants that grew to luxuriant size and in amazing quantity in the Southern Continent. She had no compunction about pursuing her particular interests, whether or not Toric forbade her to go out alone on the long searches she enjoyed. Suddenly she began to jump up and down, waving vigorously. “Look, Saneter! That has to be Hamian on the rail. And he’s not going to let Toric outdo him!”

Saneter shaded his eyes, squinting across the brilliant sea. He had just one glimpse of the figure posed on the weatherrail before the man seemed to hover in his graceful dive, cleaving the brilliant blue water and bobbing up safely a moment later to swim energetically toward his brother.

“Hamian’s return couldn’t be better timed,” Sharra remarked. “But I hope Rampesi got a good price for our last cargoes.”

Saneter shook his head. Toric was not supposed to trade with the North. If someone ever checked to see how many ships had “been forced to seek shelter from storms in Southern coves”—always the one cove—there could be real trouble with the Northern Lord Holders and the Benden Weyrleaders. He was positive that if Toric approached the Masterharper, presenting the problems and the possibilities inherent in the magnificent continent, some proper arrangement could be made.

Sharra began to shout impartial encouragement to her brothers, and even those who knew of the latest encounter of holder and Weyrwoman left their tasks to swell the hurrahs. Osemore was ordering crews to the sturdy fishing boats to ferry cargo and passengers ashore. When Saneter saw several more dive clumsily in to swim ashore, he felt somewhat encouraged by their enthusiasm.

Meanwhile Toric and Hamian had met midway, with much splashing, ducking, and shouts of challenging laughter. Saneter decided not to worry until he had good cause. As he turned back to Sharra, his bronze fire-lizard settled to his shoulder.

“Well, at least a few of those passengers have a measure of courage. Or maybe they’re just tired of smelling themselves. Either way, Sanny, I take it as a good sign they’d try to swim in,” she said, smiling. “I’d best warn Ramala that we’ll need more than fruit and rice on the table tonight.”

“I can do that,” Saneter said. “Surely you want to be here to welcome your brother after three Turns’ absence?”

“Oh, I’m not hanging about while they pretend to be shipfish,” Sharra said with a negligent wave. “They won’t come in until they’ve half drowned each other. And I can see that Master Rampesi’s launched his dinghy. There’ll be messages for you to sign for, Saneter. They’ll be here long before my brothers.” She turned on her heel toward the hold’s cool caverns, and Saneter made his way to the harbor stairs.

Sharra knew her brothers well, for Saneter and Master Rampesi were exchanging greetings before Toric and Hamian hauled themselves, laughing and breathless, out of the water. Toric had lost his bad humor in the exercise and was grinning broadly as he watched his younger brother strip sodden shirt and pants from a big frame made more powerful by three Turns of smithcrafting.

“You were enough of a threat to the girls before you went north, Hamian,” Sharra yelled, throwing down dry short pants. “Have the goodness to cover it decently before you get up here.”

“Sharra, my lovely. I’ve brought you some samples of northern men. Maybe one you’ll like,” Hamian shouted at her and ducked as she lobbed a ripe redfruit at him.

“Any likely ones among the passengers?” Toric asked as he wrung the water out of his own brief garment. If Hamian worked as competently as he looked, he would be well worth the marks his absence had cost the hold.

“Half dozen maybe,” Hamian replied, losing the width from his grin. “I did my best to leave the scum. I’ll be fair—Master Rampesi and Master Garm wouldn’t have some of them aboard. We picked the likeliest. There was supposed to be a dragonless man.…”

“Dragonless?” Toric stared at his brother in dismay. “Benden Weyr?” Though he still respected them, Toric was at odds with the Benden Weyrleaders over many of their decisions. He relaxed visibly when Hamian shook his head.

“No, from Telgar Weyr. A blue rider. The harper said that a heavy tangle caught the dragon on the left side. Somehow he managed to land with G’ron, his rider, but the man’s riding straps had been scored clear through, and he hit the ground so hard they thought he was dead. There was nothing they could do for the blue. He went—” Hamian broke off. He had seen good dragonriders in plenty at Telgar Weyr over the last three Turns, counteracting his experiences with the Oldtimers, so a dragon’s death was a felt loss.

Toric said nothing until Hamian, in a swift change of mood, turned apologetic. “Look, I know we didn’t get the quality of settlers we need, but they’re all able bodies. Some of ’em had journeymen’s knots and a couple were apprenticed to trades. I’ll take ’em all with me to the mines and work their butts off. If they don’t like it, they’ll be far enough away from here not to bother you. In fact,” Hamian said, his smile a fair match for Toric’s at his slyest, “I’ll take anything that can breathe and walk to get those mines started. We—” He clapped his brother on the shoulder with such a resounding smack that the noise startled those struggling to step to the pier from the rocking cockleboat. Five fell into the water. “We will also teach you how to swim!” he finished unexpectedly, grabbing the nearest floundering man by the shirt and lifting him easily out of the water. Then, when Toric shoved him toward the steps, Hamian bounded up to wrap powerful arms about his sister and swing her about in an exuberant embrace.

“How’s Brekke? Did you see her? Mirrim? F’nor?” Sharra was asking with what breath the crushing hug had left her.

“I’ve letters for you, and I just gave you one message from Brekke. She said she needed numbweed the most and were you going to harvest soon.”

“Good, I shall supervise that myself!”

“And make a side trip down to your lake again,” Hamian teased her. “Catch any new sports? No? Well, then—” He hooked an arm about her shoulders and started for the caverns. “F’nor and Canth were at Big Bay to see me off, so all news is fresh. Mirrim’s a pain in the neck, but she’ll change if she lives and has her health. And,” he added, lowering his voice for her ears alone, “I also saw Mother. She still won’t come though Father’s dead more than three Turns. Brever would no more leave the Crafthall to hold here under his younger brother than I could swim the Currents. Our other three sisters won’t leave her, though I tried very hard to get them and their husbands to come. But they won’t if she won’t, and she won’t if they don’t. It’s all very well for Toric to want all his Bloodkin here—but if he thinks he can trust them all on that score, he’s wrong. Frankly, I don’t think any of them would do well here anyhow.”

Saddened by the thought that her mother would never live in Toric’s beautiful hold, Sharra leaned her head against her brother’s broad powerful chest, sea cool from his swim, and walked with him in silence for a few moments.

Toric had been the first to leave the family’s High Palisades seahold. He had left the lonely island off the western side of Ista and gone to the mainland, out and about and away from the hard labor of the Fishercraft. He had been in Benden Hold when F’lar had become Weyrleader and turned back the Lord Holders’ attack. For perhaps the only time in his life, Toric had acted on impulse and had presented himself as a candidate for Ramoth’s first clutch. Disappointed in that wish, he had volunteered to follow F’nor in founding the timed Weyr in Southern, and had remained on when that project had been abandoned. Once he had established, with much hard work, his hold he had come back to Keroon and talked first Kevelon and Murda, then Hamian and Sharra into joining him. Their mother had been proud of Toric’s achievement, but not of her children’s desertion.

“Would she change her mind if Toric becomes official Lord Holder? D’you think then she’d forgive him, and us, for leaving Father?” she asked softly.

Hamian cocked his head down at her. Sharra was tall for a girl, but she was dwarfed by her huge brother. “There’s not much activity on that score, Sharrie. Lord Meron of Nabol’s dying, and though he’s got Bloodkin enough, there’s going to be a real ruckus over that succession. No time to be upsetting the incumbents. What’s the matter?” he asked when Sharra began to shake her head.

“One day they’ll be sorry. One day they’ll see their mistake in not confirming him, in leaving him out of the Conclave.”

“Sharra, he is Lord Holder in all but title,” Hamian argued. “And that’s not today’s good news. There’re a couple of good honest Masters come to join us.”

Sharra’s hazel eyes glanced at him with irritation, and she ducked out of Hamian’s embrace. “Not you, too. I tell you, Hamian, if you’ve said one word to anyone, especially Toric …”

“Me?” Hamian reared back, hands warding off a blow, his expression one of amiable surprise at her reaction. “I assure you I learned my lesson before I went for my mastery. Southern Hold women marry when and where they choose.”

“And Toric had better remember that!”

“With you reminding him whenever marriages occur, how could he forget? Now,” he said, blocking her not-so-playful blow, “can I please have something to take the tang of sea from my throat? We’d rough enough weather crossing the Currents that I shouldn’t have to take the rough of your tongue the moment I climb the steps home!”

“Ramala’s been squeezing fruit since I went for your shorts. And look, here’s Mechalla to greet you. Bring her with you.” Grinning slyly, Sharra slipped away from her brother’s side to allow the first of the girls who had grieved at his departure to flirt with him on his return.

No one clouded that evening with any mention of the morning’s meeting with the Weyrwoman; the entire hold immediately got to work to settle the newcomers so that all could enjoy Hamian’s return. Even the scruffiest of the new arrivals, having survived Toric’s scrutiny, were determined to make the most of so much food and honest hospitality. Even Saneter put aside the thick rolls of messages, most of them dealing with the exiles, to enjoy roasted meat on the strand.

“Any murderers in this lot, Saneter?” Toric asked, guiding the harper down the beach away from the feasting. People were still gorging themselves, and Toric wanted to know how well his private assessments of the new settlers jibed with the official reports.

“Only one,” Saneter replied, “and he claimed self-defense.” The harper was not convinced, having spotted the rather surly-looking fellow off to one side, shunned by other passengers. “Fifteen were apprentice-level, and two more got as far as journeymen in their crafts, and were turned out of their places for constant pilfering and theft; one was caught selling Crafthall goods at a third of their worth.”

Toric nodded. He was desperate enough to take any help to clear Southern lands, even to the extent of circumventing the Benden Weyrleaders’ restriction on any intercourse between the interdicted Southern Weyr and Hold. So Toric was smuggling people in from the North. Some desperate holdless folk heard whispers that he would not turn them away from the Southern shores, but he was getting too many useless folk for his trusted settlers to absorb quietly. He needed more skilled men, trained in hold and hall management—and he had to keep his illicit settlers from the Oldtimers’ notice.

“Two were caught stealing unmarked herdbeasts. There are, however, some honest settlers,” Saneter continued, hurrying on to the good news. “Four couples with good crafts, and nine singles of varied backgrounds, some of them with very good recommendations. Hamian vouches for four of the men and two of the women. Toric, I’ll say it now and get it off my chest: you should apply to the Masterharper.”

Toric snorted. “He’d tell Benden—”

“And the Benden Weyrleaders, if you approached them with Master Robinton, would be the first to assist you. They wanted to explore this whole land,” Saneter said, sweeping his arm wide, “and they would have, if the Oldtimers hadn’t—well, you know all that.” He broke off. “But some young, eager, trained holder sons who know they’re not going to get any place north during a Pass would certainly see the advantages to coming south. Even if we have to sneak them in when the Oldtimers aren’t looking.” Saneter gave Toric a quick glance to see his reaction. Toric’s head was down, and Saneter could tell nothing from his profile.

“You certainly don’t have to mention what you’ve already discovered. I haven’t, I assure you, Lord Holder,” Saneter went on. “But if ore is to be useful to you as a trading medium, it’s got to be known. As I’m sure Hamian told you, the Mastersmith is desperate for all the iron, nickel, lead, and zinc he can get. Mine production in the north is at full pelt.”

“You’re remarkably well informed for a harper sent south for his health,” Toric said, giving the old man a long hard look.

“I am indeed harper,” Saneter agreed, drawing himself up and returning Toric’s stare. “And that has always been more than simply singing teaching songs to children!”

“We’ve got to mine; we’ve got to transport the ore. And that’s going to take muscle. At least Hamian’s brought back three good journeyminers and another Master.” Toric rocked on his heels, jamming his thumbs in his shirt belt. There was a cool northerly breeze blowing across the strand. “They’ll have tonight’s celebration, then we’ll muster them all tomorrow morning, first light”—Toric’s grin was calculating as he thought of the stronger southern brews that were guaranteed to give the unwary vicious hangovers—“and give them the usual warnings. The useful will remember, and the foolish will forget, and then cause neither us nor the Lord Holders who sent them further grief.”

Toric’s callous attitude had once bothered Saneter, but he had been at Southern too long not to see its merit. Southern was a bizarre, often cruel, land, and those who deserved its bounty learned to survive its dangers.

“Those dragonmen were supposed to explore,” Toric declared. “They haven’t. I am. Flood, fire, fog, or Fall, I’m going to find out just how big Southern really is.”

Saneter forebore to mention either Sharra’s competence in exploring down the Big Lagoon River or her eagerness to go as far as she could. For all the innovations Toric had made in his hold, he retained some traditional views, especially about his sisters. Murda had been acquiescent; Sharra was not. The harper cleared his throat to voice a suggestion, but Toric went on.

“Even a dragon has to fly straight the first time he goes to a new location. Why did F’lar recall all the good riders?” His tone was so disconsolate, suddenly so weary and hopeless, that Saneter almost felt sorry for the man.

Giron was so drunk that for most of the first day he slept. The carter did not bother to check his load of barreled salt fish when he pulled into the cave site, so Giron had slept on undiscovered. Later, when all sheltering there were sound asleep, Giron rolled off the uncomfortable barrels and went in search of water. Slaking his thirst at the stream, he settled himself as comfortably as the rocky ground permitted and slept again. He stole food from campers the next evening, still disoriented, not remembering that he had marks enough, tucked inside his waistband, to buy whatever he needed. He kept trying to remember what it was he had forgotten: something he should have but was missing. Something he would never find again. There was an ache deep inside that would never stop hurting.

The next day, another carter recognized the empty-faced stranger as the dragonless man. He brushed his clothes, fed him, and when Giron demanded wine, he let him have the wineskin, surprised that the former dragonrider did not complain about its raw acid taste. The carter took him up on the seat of the wagon, because he conceived that he had a duty to protect one who had been a dragonrider. There were too many holdless rogues about who would rob even their mothers of marks. The carter endured the pathetic, silent man all the way across the mountains and to the door of the Mastertanner’s Hall. There Master Belesdan had his drum tower communicate with Igen Hold and Igen Weyr. Finally Lord Laudey sent an escort with a spare runnerbeast.

“We’re to take him back to the Hold,” the escort said. “He was supposed to go to Southern Hold. Cracked his skull, you know, and doesn’t think straight yet. We’ll get him there safely.”

Halfway there, Giron saw sweepriders, and, as the escort reported to Lord Laudey, “He seemed to take a fit. He was screaming and yelling, and he whipped up the poor runnerbeast so hard, we couldn’t catch up. Last we saw of him he was swimming across the river. I don’t know if he was trying to catch up with the dragonriders, or what.”

“Go across to the caves. Tell them to watch out for Giron. Let them know who he is and that if anyone does him any harm, they’ll answer to me—and to all the Weyrs of Pern.”

The urgent requests brought by Master Rampesi from Brekke and the Healer Hall were all the excuse that Sharra needed to force Toric to allow her to go harvest the numbweed bush. She made it very clear that a quick trip just to harvest the bush would mean cooking it in the hold. Allowed a longer trip, the complete job could be done entirely on the site. Toric hesitated, and Sharra’s heart sank. She knew that he wanted her to spend time with some of Hamian’s new arrivals, but she was not ready to settle down, and she was afraid that she might actually find she liked one of them.

“I feel I ought to accompany her this time,” Ramala said suddenly.

Catching her hard stare, Toric yielded, knowing that if he refused them both, he would have little peace. “You be careful, Sharra,” he said, wagging a finger in her face. “Smart and careful.”

With a teasing smile she caught the finger. “Brother, why won’t you, too, admit that I’m the Mastercrafter out back?” She left it at that, and he stalked out of the family hall, muttering about ingratitude and dangers she could not imagine.

Ramala grinned and, her husband out of the way, added travel-packed foods to Sharra’s pile of gear. “We can make the morning tide. I’ve three boats.”

“Three?” Sharra was both surprised and delighted. “How’d you manage that, Ramala?”

Ramala shrugged. “No one can ever have too much numbweed. Garm took the coast route to check on the growth, and it’s very good this year. I saw the total of Brekke’s needs. You go after the unusual herbs. I’ll manage the cookout. I need a respite.”

Sharra laughed with genuine amusement. Ramala was a quiet woman, competent, perceptive, and gifted with all the attributes Sharra knew herself to be deficient in, especially patience. Ramala was not a pretty woman but she exuded an indefinable air that caused people to turn to her for advice and help. Sharra did not know much about Ramala’s past—except that she had been in a Healer Hall in Nerat before she came to Southern; the other woman had bought her own place in Southern, and Toric had seen such worth in her that he had invited her to join him permanently in his hall. Ramala never complained, but Sharra could quite easily see how she might like a short break. Toric’s hard ambition and driving energy were wearing. He would be occupied with Hamian in setting up the miners’ train, Saneter could fend off the Weyr, and Ramala’s four children were old enough to be useful on the trip.

Sharra completed her packing, throwing in a second pair of the double wherhide high boots with reinforced toes that she preferred when tramping through Southern’s undergrowth and streams and adding her tough cotton shirts and knee breeches. She filled the many pockets of her vest with the minor tools she had found most handy to carry on her person at all times, then packed a doublecoil of new hemp rope; dagger, implement knife, and a short blade that fit in one boot; the roll of waterproof cotton that had acted as tent, raingear, or bedding; and the broad-brimmed hat that shielded her eyes from sun glare.

The three boats sailed with the tide, heeled over and flying as the stiff easterly wind caught the red sails. Most people were singing, and some of the younger boys, who regarded the voyage as the best part of the outing, had lines cast over the side, each hoping to catch the biggest prize. Shipfish picked up their customary bow positions, flipping and careering and generally making a show of themselves to the delight of the passengers. Their appearance augured a good, quick voyage, and Sharra felt the shadows that had fallen over the hold lift. Damn the Oldtimers! Damn them right between. Those stupid restrictions were all their fault.

She glanced quickly around as if someone could have heard her thoughts. Meer and Talla, her fire-lizards, crooned softly from their perch on the cabin. Still, one ought not to ill-wish dragonriders. Not all of them were like the Oldtimers, but those were enough to sour life in Southern.

They came around the headland, and Sharra jumped to the sheets when the skipper had to take in sail to avoid being driven too close to the rocky coast. They would be at the Big Lagoon by the next morning, at which time they could negotiate its hazards in broad daylight and on the tide.

Once they had landed and all the gear had been brought to a good site, Ramala told Sharra to get herself lost but to be back in ten days.

“That won’t take me much farther than I’ve been before,” Sharra complained, but at Ramala’s fond, stern look, she hefted her pack to her back, called Meer and Talla from the fair doing wingdances across the plain, and trotted off to make the most of her freedom, muttering cheerfully about restrictions.

She had nearly reached the first stands of trees surrounding the plain when Meer, describing lazy loops above her head, gave a hopeful chirp, a sound that indicated to Sharra that he had seen a gold. He was one of the randiest bronzes in the hold. Then his chirp altered briefly in surprise, and he returned to her shoulder. Talla took the other side, both of them alert. So when Sharra heard the sounds of someone stumbling about in the forest and the scolding of a queen fire-lizard, she was more annoyed at a possible curtailment of her ten-day holiday than she was surprised to find a stranger so far from the hold.

Her annoyance fled at the sight of a scruffy lad, hunkered down in the brush and peering at the activity of the camp, one arm about the neck of a runt runnerbeast while a young gold fire-lizard had her tail firmly wrapped about his sunburned neck. He seemed disgusted that his queen had not warned him of Sharra’s approach, but he was willing enough to talk. His name was Piemur, he said, and all on his own he had already survived three Threadfalls in Southern.

Sharra was impressed with his resourcefulness, and it occurred to her that here might be someone Toric could use. He was young and alone and clever—and she liked him. Resisting an impulse to ruffle his sun-streaked tangle of hair, Sharra felt a pang of sorrow for whatever mother had lost this young rascal. A heart-grabber, he was. Now, if she could find someone with his charm, say ten Turns older …

His cocky resilience decided her. She did not have to take him back to the shore yet. She could have her browse around and get the stuff Brekke had asked for—and she would have a chance to see just how capable a Southern holder he could be. Toric would listen to her evaluation. Maybe if she had a capable apprentice to take along, Toric would let her do some real explorations.

As if he could read her mind, Piemur offered to help her with her herb-gathering. Pleased, she motioned for him to follow her deeper into the forest.

By the time they returned to the coast, Sharra had formed a high but qualified opinion of Piemur. He was the born rogue and scoundrel she had suspected, and she was certain that a discreet inquiry to the North would prove that he was a Craft apprentice, absent—for a dare, she rather thought, that had gone badly wrong—without permission from his Hall. He had probably been in a major Hall or near a major Hold, because he was knowledgeable about attitudes and issues that the average boy was unlikely to know about. His mind was as quick as his tongue, and he had a wry sense of humor and fun. His voice had almost settled to an adult baritone, so he was older than he looked.

Piemur was also possessed of a finely tuned memory and never forgot her traveling lessons on herbs or travel safety. He had an instinct for self-preservation that rivaled that of his fire-lizard. And, like Sharra, he had an exploring turn of mind. They would have been halfway to the snowy mountains if they had not had to be back to make the voyage home. He was exactly the stuff of which good Southerners were made.

His main worry then was that his runnerbeast—whom he called Stupid and who was anything but—could not be accommodated on one of the ships. He had sworn he would walk back to the hold if he had to, but he would not just let Stupid loose. Sharra had eased his apprehensions on that score, promising that a couple of strong sailors could easily lift the little runnerbeast into one of the sloops, but on the hike back to the coast, Piemur had become more and more laconic. Something was worrying him, and to Sharra, it confirmed her notion that he had not been entirely truthful with her.

“We don’t care what people left behind them, so long as they work hard here. It’s a great place to start all over, Piemur,” she said when they were within hailing distance of the camp. She waved to Ramala, who had just noticed them. “I think we can even manage to get a message North—discreetly—if there’s someone who should know you’re alive and kicking here.”

Instead of appearing relieved, Piemur looked away. “Yeah, I’ll have to do something about a message, Sharra. Thanks.” But he did not look at her, pretending to adjust a chin piece of the halter he had made for Stupid out of the varicolored grasses they had found in the swampland.

Sharra introduced him as the survivor of a shipwreck whom she had encountered in the wilderness. “Toric will love him as a prime example to the faint of heart in that latest group. If a kid can live rough, they can manage, too,” she told Ramala.

“He’ll need boots,” Ramala commented. “Too bad his feet aren’t as tough as the rest of his hide.”

Sharra laughed. Piemur’s skin had taken a deep tan to the ragged waistband of his tattered pants. He had mended the worst rents with patches Sharra had in one of her pockets, but he desperately wanted a waistcoat like hers, with “sockets and pockets and gussets and gores where a fellow could store anything he needed on the trail.”

Though he sported a few scrapes and scratches, he was less marked than some of those who had gathered numbweed bush. The stench of the cooked weed hovered like a miasma on the plain, but the tubs and buckets of the salve were already stored in the sloops. Fresh fish had been caught from the outer barrier reef, and roots and fruits had been gathered. There would be a good evening meal.

On the sail back, Sharra heard Piemur asking casual questions of the other youngsters. Somehow the questions always got around to the matter of the Oldtimers. Whatever he really wanted to know, Sharra thought, he did not seem to have found out by the time he could see the Weyr cliff itself.

Sharra instantly recognized a small skiff riding at anchor, with its Harper Hall colors on the stern. It was not the first time that Menolly herself had come from the Fort Hold Healer Hall to collect Master Oldive’s share of Sharra’s medicinal gatherings. Menolly might be seahold bred, but she had never before made the journey alone. Could Sebell have come with her? Toric was standing, elbows cocked, on the stone wharf; they would have to unload the ships before she got a chance to see Menolly and her unidentified shipmate.

Getting Stupid unloaded and up the steps proved easier than Sharra had thought. Ramala helped distract Toric—Piemur could be introduced later when Toric had had time to count the large number of full tubs and see how much had been gathered. But when Sharra had gotten the boy safely to the entrance to the cavern, he had nearly dropped the load he was carrying.

“A drum!” He caressed the edge of it.

“That’s an addition,” Sharra said. She was surprised not only by the drum, a section of one of the huge mandamo trees that were large enough to shelter a fair of fire-lizards, but by the mixed emotions that rippled across Piemur’s expressive face: familiarity, yearning, and calculation.

He looked up and out, northwest across the sea. Then, before she could tell him not to, he pounded the drum in a complicated sequence. After that, he picked up the feather ferns he had dropped and looked politely at her for directions.

The two of them had just reached her workroom when they heard the shout, echoing down the cavern aisle. “Piemur report!”

“Sebell?” The look of utter astonishment on the boy’s face lasted no more than a fraction of a moment. He dashed from the chamber, Sharra hard on his heels. Her castaway boy knew Master Robinton’s messenger? When she got to the main hall of the hold, she found Piemur being embraced by Menolly and Sebell. Only after Toric had shouted them all quiet, demanding explanations, did Sharra hear an accurate account of Piemur’s adventure.

Piemur had gone with Sebell to Nabol Hold, trying to locate the source of so many fire-lizard eggs. It was believed that the deceased Lord Meron had had illicit dealings with the Oldtimers. Piemur had managed—and Sebell gave his apprentice a scowl for the worry he had caused the Harper Hall—to get into the Hold and audaciously steal one of the eggs hardening on Lord Meron’s hearth. Forced to hide in a sack to escape discovery, he had awakened in Southern, panicked at the sound of voices, and again escaped discovery.

“There is no way under the sun that you will get me to admit to Mardra, Loranth’s rider,” Toric said, his expression forbidding as he faced Sebell, “that someone really had been in her bloody sack!” He scowled fiercely at Piemur, who looked alarmed.

“Well, she’s forgotten the matter long since, I assure you,” Ramala remarked calmly. “I think we should concentrate on this enterprising young fellow.”

“He’s got the makings of a good Southerner, Toric,” Sharra said.