5

Igen and Lemos Holds, PP 12

Thella was not pleased when she and Giron arrived at the labyrinthine Igen caverns to find that their usual discreet entrance had been blocked up again. She was angry enough to help Giron destroy the barrier.

“Someone didn’t do a good job,” Giron said as the hardset that sealed the stones crumbled at the touch of his steel.

“I’d skin a stoneman who did such shoddy work,” Thella said through gritted teeth. She was tired, and she had counted on getting safely inside without being caught by the Igen patrol they had seen in the distance.

The site had been excellent for her purposes. A tangle of young sky-broom saplings partially concealed an opening just high enough to permit runners to enter. Inside, the ceiling was sufficient for tall men to stand erect. A small chamber to the right of the entrance made an excellent beast shelter, with water oozing into a pool. There were four other tunnels leading from the entrance, two of them falling into dangerous shafts; the widest led deep into the bowels of the cave system; the fourth and narrowest seemed to end within a dragonlength but, in fact, turned abruptly right and came out at one of the intersecting main passages of the inhabited portions of the cave system.

It was easy enough to get into the vaulted chambers where people congregated during the day without encountering any of Lord Laudey’s guards. Although Thella contacted one of her regular informers, it took all morning before she caught a glimpse of her quarry. She was not impressed.

Aramina was a slender brown girl, her pants rolled to her knees, and traces of mud on her legs and arms. Her clothing was muddy, as well, and as she passed by Thella’s vantage point, the odor of the mudflats lingered about her, along with the stench of the net full of shellfish she carried. A small, muddier boy tagged along, calling, “Aramina, wait for me!”—and Thella had the positive identification she needed.

She saw Giron’s cold eyes following the pair, and the ominous expression on his face made her uncomfortable.

“I’ll want some proof of her abilities,” she said. “She’s of an age to be difficult. Too old to be malleable, and too young to be reasoned with. Find out what you can about her. I’ll see where she squats.” She caught his arm as he turned away. “And be sure you eat before you come back. It looks like some scavenger smelled out the supplies we left here.”

“Snake, more likely,” Giron said unexpectedly, his gaze following the girl as she made her way among those sitting about the wide, low-ceilinged cavern.

Thella went in search of her most reliable source of information. As she made her way to a largish side chamber, not far from the main entrance, she realized that there were more folk living in the caverns than ever before. The place stank of its throng. Thella estimated that there must have been hundreds sitting or standing about. From snatches of conversation she overheard, she understood them to be waiting for the arrival of Lady Holder Doris, who came every morning with three healers to examine the injured or ailing and distribute the day’s ration of flour and root vegetables. The ablebodied apparently added to those supplies, to judge by Aramina’s net. Shellfish from Igen’s tidal flats were very tasty. Those holdless drifters were living better than she, of Telgar’s Bloodline, had in her first Turn of the Pass. Well, if the Igen Lord Holder and his Lady had food to give to beggars, then she would not mind lifting more of their goods in the future, Thella decided, skirting the crowd deftly. No one seemed to take note of her as she ducked down the passageway to Brare’s squat.

“It’s tough times,” the footless seaman told her, and expected her to believe it as he dipped out a bowl of thick fish chowder for her, rich with roots, a variety of fish meats, and even some shellfish. “Laudey’s men search now at odd times—you couldn’t be sure when it’s safe.”

Thella gave a quick glance to position the exits from Brare’s cave. “How recent a custom is this search? What can they expect to find in here?” Brare had been one of her first and most useful contacts. He despised Craftsmen and had few good words for Holders, despite the fact that he was living fairly well off the softhearted Igenish.

“Aye, last few weeks.” He cocked his head and regarded her through slitted eyes, a sly smile on his face. “Aye, since all of Kadross Hold’s grain was lifted one morning during Threadfall. Up Lemos way.”

Thella did not change expression as she thanked him for the chowder and blew on the surface to cool it. “You make a great chowder, Brare,” she said.

“I’d lay low were I the ones who cleaned out Kadross. I’d find a new shore to cast my nets. Lotta questions being asked, casual like.”

“About me?”

“About likely souls who’d turn renegade. They seem to want to catch a good-sized, well-disciplined band. They’d pay high for a proper lead.”

She smiled to herself, pleased that her skill had been noticed but irritated that the search had fanned out as far as Igen’s caverns. Maybe she should not raid Igen, after all.

“You been real clever, Lady Thella.”

He timed his casual use of her name well—she had just taken a mouthful of chowder, still too hot to swallow quickly. He grinned at her discomfort, but they were alone, and Brare was not fool enough to let her name drop where others could hear it. He had known who she was for the past few Turns and she wondered how much she would have to hand over before he would “forget” that he knew it.

“No fear, lady.” Brare chuckled. “It’s my secret!” He chuckled again. “I like a good secret. I know to keep it close, too. Here!” He patted his belt pouch.

Fair enough, and curiously she did trust Brare. She had paid him well over the last Turns. She took his hint and slipped him thirty quartermarks, coins he could most easily change without question. Readis had confirmed that the old fisherman had never been known to betray anyone. The old man, who moved only between his sunny place outside the main entrance and his cave, probably knew anything of interest that occurred throughout the eastern rank of Holds. She had used his information to advantage in the past.

His sharp gray eyes sparkled as his hand confirmed the new size of his pouch. “That’s a tidy price for a cup of chowder, lady.” He gave her a wide smug grin without opening his lips, screwing up the sun-scored wrinkles about his eyes.

“Not just chowder, Brare,” she said, putting an edge on her voice. “What do you know about this girl who can hear dragons?”

Brare regarded her with widened eyes and an appreciative stare, pulling the corners of his mouth down knowingly. “Thought you’d hear about her. Who tol’ja?”

“A deaf man.”

Brare nodded. “He was bound and determined he’d get to you. I told him to wait. Too many looking to find you. He could lead ’em to your door.”

“He didn’t. I’ve rewarded him well. Gave him a hold all his own for the winter.” Brare accepted her lie with an amiable nod, and Thella pursued the information she needed. “About the girl?”

“Is that why you brought the dragonless man with you?”

It was Thella’s turn to grin. He did have ears in the walls and eyes on every ceiling!

“He’s improved in health since you told Readis he was here. The girl?” She did not intend to spend the whole morning chatting with a coy old man in a smelly inner cave, even if he did make a fine chowder.

“Aye, that’s true enough. Our Aramina, daughter to Dowell and Barla. She hears dragons, right enough. Or so the hunters say, for they take her with them if there’s any fear of Fall.”

“Where is she? I’m not prowling about in this warren without direction.”

“That’s wise of you. Two passages to the right here, turn left. Follow the main branch—it’s now lighted—to the fourth intersection. Family dosses down in an alcove on the right. Pink downers,” he added, referring to the cave’s stalactites. “Dowell carved me my stick, you know.” He reached beside him and offered the crutch for her inspection. When she caught sight of the intricate carving, she grabbed the end for a closer look. Father, as well as daughter, would be useful to her. “Broom wood,” Brare said with understandable pride. “Hardest wood anywhere. Not even Thread scores it. This came from a piece blown down by that big gale we had several Turns back. Took Dowell all winter to decorate it. Paid him what it was worth, too.” His fingers caressed the dark wood, rubbed shiny by use. “Fine work.”

“Stout crutch. Best I’ve ever had!” Then bitterness seemed to overcome him and he snatched it from her, throwing it down beside him and out of sight. “You’ve had your chowder. Get away from me. I’d be thrown out of the best berth a footless man could have if you’re found in here.”

She went immediately, and not to please him—once he started brooding on his injury, he turned maudlin. As she followed his directions, she mused on the idea that a man who could carve with such skill would be living among the Igen holdless. She would have thought he could find a place in any Hold.

Not for the first time, she wondered why no one had taken Igen’s cave complex to Hold. There were plenty of large chambers, even if they were not so high and vaulted as those of Igen Hold itself across the river. Floodwaters washing into the main chamber would be a disadvantage, she admitted. Igen Proper stood well back from the river, on a high bank, well above any overflow.

The labyrinth was not so well ventilated, but some of the stalactites and stalagmites that formed natural divisions between alcoves had an eerie luminous beauty in their shaded layers. The deeper in she went, the more she was aware of the settled odors of damp and concentrated human living. She was glad of the glow baskets, for she would have been quickly lost without light.

The alcove with pink stalactites was empty but neat. Belongings were locked away in carved chests, straw pallets rolled up on top of them. Propped in one corner and chained to a stalactite was a heavy dray beast yoke, though with its distinctive carving anyone would be a fool to steal it. She stood in the center of the chamber, trying to get a feeling for its inhabitants. She would have to find out what pressures could be put on Dowell and Barla so that Aramina would come of her own accord.

When she heard the echo of cheering and many conversations, she turned inward, moving swiftly to less used corridors and back to her lair. She had taken another few hours’ rest and was mulling over possibilities when Giron returned, calling softly to warn her of his coming. Wise man, she thought. She had already heard the scraping and had her knife out, poised to throw. He grunted when he saw her arm still raised and waited to enter until she had sheathed it. He had a covered earthenware bowl in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other.

“I waited for my share,” Giron said, offering half the loaf to her. The tempting odor of steamed shellfish filled the little room when he opened the pot and peered in. “There’s enough.”

She wanted to say that she did not eat dole food, that Thella, Lady Holdless, did not accept Igenish charity, but the bread looked crusty and was still warm, and the shellfish would be succulent.

“You can bury the shells later,” she muttered, reaching into the pot. “What did you hear? Was the place searched? Did you see her again? A reliable source tells me she’s genuine.”

Giron grunted, and his face had a closed expression, not quite concealing intense and conflicting emotions. She waited until they had both eaten before she prompted him again. She could not let his black mood take precedence over her requirements.

“She hears them, right enough,” he murmured, eyes unfocused and features set. “The girl hears dragons.”

His tone made her examine him more closely, and she got a sense of a bitter poignant envy, an unsettling rancorous anger seething in the dragonless man. They had done him no favors restoring his health. So why had he come with her, knowing her quest?

“She could be useful to me, then,” she said finally to break the dense brooding silence. She spoke in a brisk tone. “Look to the beasts after you bury the shells. Save the pot. Were Igen guards in evidence? I’m told they search frequently and without warning.”

He shoveled the shells back into the pot, then shrugged. “No one bothered me.”

That did not surprise Thella. One look at his expression would have been sufficient to warn off questions, even from guards. She was sorry she had not brought someone else to leaven such dour company. She rolled up in her sleeping fur before he returned from his tasks. She knew he knew she was not asleep, but he settled himself for the night with a minimum of sound.

The next morning she changed to appropriate holder clothing, with Keronian colors and a beasthold journeyman’s shoulder knot. With a knitted hat over her plaits, she strolled confidently to Dowell’s alcove, giving a greeting at the entrance as she swiftly surveyed the occupants.

“Dowell, I’ve heard of your carving expertise and have a commission for you.”

Dowell rose and gestured for her to enter, nudging the boy off one of the chests and telling him to get a clean mug for the holder. Aramina, in skirt and loose blouse, reached for the klah jug and poured a generous cup, which the woman, Barla, passed courteously to Thella.

“Be seated, holder,” Barla said with the air of someone embarrassed to offer only a chest and struggling to hide it.

Thella took what was offered, thinking that the woman might well have been coveted by Fax: Barla was still a handsome woman, despite deep worry lines about mouth and eyes. The boy was goggle-eyed about an early visit; the youngest child was still asleep along the far wall.

“I don’t come by much good wood, holder,” Dowell said.

“Ah,” Thella said, airily dismissing that consideration. “That can be remedied. I’m in need of two armchairs, in a fellis leaf pattern, as a bride present. They must be finished before snow blocks the pass to High Ground Hold. Can you oblige me?”

She could see Dowell hesitate and could not understand why. Surely he took commissions. He wore no color or journeyman knot. He shot an anxious glance at his wife.

“It’d be worth a quartermark to me to see design sketches by evening.” Thella took a handful of marks from her pouch, selected a quarter, and held it up. “A quarter for sketches. We can discuss price when I’ve chosen what I like, but you’ll find me generous.” She saw the anxious glint in the wife’s eye, saw her unobtrusively nudge her husband’s arm.

“Yes, I can have design sketches for you, Lady Holder. By this evening?”

“Very good. By evening.”

Thella stood, dropping the quarter in his hand. Then she turned as if struck by a sudden thought and smiled at Aramina. “Didn’t I see you yesterday? With a net full of shellfish?” Why did the girl stiffen and eye her so warily?

“Yes, Lady Holder,” Aramina managed to reply.

“Do you dig every day to fill the family pot?” What did one talk about to timid girls who heard dragons?

“We share what we dig,” Aramina said, lifting her chin proudly.

“Laudable, most laudable,” Thella said, though she thought it rather odd that a girl who had lived holdless would be so touchy. “I’ll see you this evening, Master Dowell.”

“Journeyman, Lady Holder. Journeyman.”

“Humph. With the carvings I’ve seen?” She left the compliment like that. Dowell’s family would need careful handling. She could hear the woman whispering excitedly to her husband. A quartermark was a lot to a holdless family.

Now where, Thella wondered, was she going to come by seasoned wood, the sort a prosperous holder woman would gift a bride?

She was back that evening and expressed lavish praise for the five designs he showed her. He was a good draftsman and showed a fine range of chair types. She was tempted to do more than just string him along with promise of work in an attempt to gain the daughter’s confidence. Such armchairs would be far more comfortable than the canvas affairs and the stiff benches which were all she currently had. The harp-back design could be easily transported in sections to her hold and then glued together. One design, with a high, straight back, wide, gracefully curved arms, and carved legs and crosspieces, was particularly splendid.

All of a sudden, Giron came striding down in the passageway, flashing her an urgent hand signal.

“Let me have a day or two to choose, Dowell,” she said, rising to her feet and folding the sketches carefully. “I’ll bring these back and we’ll discuss this further.”

She heard the wife murmur anxiously to the joiner. But Giron jerked his head for her to be quick, so she followed him down the next narrow alley.

“Searchers!” he whispered. Then she led him through dim corridors until they were safely out of reach.

Two days later, after she had Giron check to make sure there had already been a search that morning, she returned to Dowell’s place. To her disgust the girl was not there. She discussed wood with Dowell and haggled over price. She finally gave him more than she thought she ought, but as she would probably never have to give over but half, and might even get that back, she could afford to seem generous.

Aramina, she discovered from Brare, had been sent out with the hunters. No one actually said that she had been taken along because she could hear dragons, but it did not take much wit to figure that out.

“How many people know about her?” Thella asked Brare, worrying that if the Weyrs found out about Aramina’s talent, they would snap the girl up, thus ending all of Thella’s grand plans. Her ambitions were great, and she was becoming increasingly convinced that they could not be realized without a guaranteed way of evading the dragonriders.

“Them?” Brare jerked his thumb in a western direction and snorted disbelief. “No one’ll tell ‘them.’ It’d be worth their life here if they did. She’s too useful to the hunters. Have to go much farther out in the hills to find wherry these days. Don’t want to be caught out. I do like a bit o’ wherry meat once in a while.” He sucked in air past gaps in his teeth. Thella rose at once and left.

Over the next few days, Thella tried both to gain the girl’s confidence and to lure Dowell into bringing his whole family to her hold. She and Giron had “found” the required lengths of wood handily enough, cautiously replacing what they stole with inferior planks.

“We’re quiet in the mountains, I grant you,” she told Dowell as she watched him meticulously carving the design on the chair back, the controlled motions of his short-bladed knife almost imperceptible. “But you can’t want your children to remain in this warren. You could finish these chairs in my hold, comfortably. I’ve got a good harper-teacher as well.” She managed not to smile at the thought of her so-called harper’s morals.

“We’re going back to our rightful hold in Ruatha, lady,” Barla replied with dignity.

Thella was surprised. “Across Telgar Plains during Threadfall?”

“The route has been well planned, lady,” Dowell said, intent on his work. “We shall have shelter when it’s needed.”

Thella caught Barla’s slight, almost smug smile and read it as an indication that they were counting on their daughter’s talent.

“Surely not at this time of the year, with winter approaching?”

“Your commission will not take me long, lady, now that I have the wood,” Dowell said. “I shall have it ready for you and still make the journey. Winter comes later to Telgar coasts.”

“Dowell is a journeyman; he practices his craft,” Barla added, defensively. “The stewards sent by Mastersmith Fandarel and Telgar Lord Holder cannot draft him to the mines.”

“Of course not,” Thella agreed fervently, though she felt a jolt of apprehension at the thought of her brother Larad anywhere near. “I’m amazed that Lord Laudey is permitting any interference by outsiders in these caverns.”

“Lord Laudey suggested it,” Dowell said with a mirthless smile.

“I do not blame him,” Barla said gently. “There are many here who could work who don’t. Lady Doris is too kind.”

“A fine generous woman,” Thella agreed, beginning to think that perhaps Barla was the one she should concentrate on.

Giron had informed her that the searching was two-pronged: to sift any information that might lead to the capture of marauding bands and to collect ablebodied people to work at Smithcrafthall and Telgar’s mines. The population of the cavern had noticeably decreased the first night. Sufficient folk, those with families particularly, had volunteered for the Smithcrafthall’s various projects: not just the making of more agenothree flamethrowers and the maintenance of existing apparatus, but some scheme—and Giron was skeptical—of the Mastersmith’s to provide better communications between all Holds, Halls, and Weyrs. Thella did not like the idea of mountain mines being reopened. The unused shafts made ideal refuges. Still, she could always give her scouts miner’s knots to wear on their shoulders. They would then have an explanation for their presence in the shafts.

Just in case one of Larad’s stewards might recognize her, even after fourteen Turns, she elected to keep out of sight. Being confined all day did not improve her temper at all. She had Giron keep one eye on Dowell’s progress, and the other on the girl—and she made plans.

What Thella was waiting for was one of the foggy nights typical of late autumn. With Telgar’s men around, she no longer had the time to talk the family into moving to her hold—not when slipping a little fellis powder into their dinner kettle would sidestep resistance. And the girl was the one she wanted. The others were useless baggage. When they were truly asleep, she and Giron would remove the girl. A few threats of vengeance would ensure the girl’s compliance. She had Giron purchase a third runnerbeast and prepare to leave the area.

She was livid, two mornings later, when Giron came hurrying back to tell her that he had found the woodcarver’s alcove occupied by six elderlies, none of whom understood his questions about the previous inhabitants.

Brare was astonished when he heard—and angry. “Aramina’s gone? She’d no right. There’s to be a hunt today, before the next big Fall. They were expecting her. They need her to help them hunt. And I had my mouth all set for roast wherry.” He shoved his crutch under his arm and was halfway down the passage before Thella realized where he was going.

Giron grabbed her by the shoulder. “No! Guards around. Come.”

“He’ll find out where they’ve gone.”

“He should have known they were going,” Giron replied in a savage tone. “It’ll be a warm day between before I believe that footless man again.” He started to leave. “They can’t have gone far, not with three children and a cart pulled by burden beasts.”

“Burden beasts?” Thella followed him, not at first realizing that she was. She stopped. “Why didn’t you tell me they had burden beasts?”

Giron halted and swung around to her, disgusted. “You’re not usually slow-witted. You couldn’t have missed seeing the yoke they had chained to an upper.” He grabbed her by the hand. “They’d beasts for the yoke—kept ’em at grass, south of the cavern.”

“Which way would they go then? They couldn’t be mad enough to head toward Ruatha now?”

“I’ll check with the clamdiggers. You get the runners ready. They can’t have gone far, whichever way they went.”

Halfway back to her lair, Thella realized that she had followed Giron’s orders without protest. She was furious with him, and with herself for losing control, and outraged that the meek-mouthed Dowell and his affected wife could have outguessed her. She only hoped he had taken the carved wood with him. She would have those chairs off him or his hide!

“They didn’t strike off east,” Giron said. “The ferryman would have seen them.” He had been running hard and had to lean against the wall to catch his breath. “A train went out of here, three days ago, headed toward Great Lake and Far Cry Hold with winter supplies.”

“Dowell expected to join them?” Thella tightened the cinch on her runner and gestured for Giron to ready his while she tied their supplies to the saddle of the third beast.

“They wouldn’t want to be on their own. You don’t lead the only renegade band in this area,” Giron said, pulling the strap so tight that the runnerbeast squealed in protest.

“Watch that, Giron!” She meant both noise and rough-handling. She did not hold with needless mistreatment of animals. She would have expected better management from a dragonless man—or maybe he was revenging his loss on other animals.

Outside the den, she signalled to him to stop and dismount. As much as she wanted to be on the trail of her quarry, she first had Giron help her replace enough of the debris to ensure that a casual look would see a blocked entrance. She might need that refuge again.

Then they mounted and were off as fast as they could safely move on uphill, stony ground and leading an animal.

The fourth day out of Igen, Jayge had lost all his bad temper. All he had really needed was to get back on the road again, away from holders, away from the shifting and shiftless masses in the low caverns and the constant appeals from the Smithcrafthallers and the Telgarans to “take a hold of himself,” “be useful,” “learn a good craft,” and “make enough credits to bank with a Bitran.”

He liked being a trader; he had always liked the open road, setting his own pace, commanding his own time, and being accountable to himself alone for what he ate and wore and where he sheltered. Jayge certainly would not have traded the hazards of life on track and trail, despite the horrors of Threadfall, for a secure life straining his guts and his back to carve rooms in someone else’s hold. The three wretched miserable Turns at Kimmage Hold had been sample enough of holding. He could not imagine how his Uncle Borel and the others could possibly have chosen to remain at Kimmage as little more than drudges. The children for whom they were sacrificing themselves would not appreciate it when they got older. Not Lilcamps with the restlessness bred into the Blood.

Jayge strode out ahead of the train. He was walking point, checking the trail for any obstacles that might hinder the progress of the broad, heavily laden wagons. Their metal roofs made them cumbersome but safe enough—thanks to Ketrin and Borgald’s ingenuity—if the train got caught out in a freak Fall, though that would be very bad trail management indeed. Since that first time, nearly thirteen Turns earlier, neither Jayge nor any other Lilcamp had suffered score. There were, he had discovered since that day, worse things than a mindless burning rain.

Jayge cursed under his breath. The day was too fine to sully by thinking of past problems. The Lilcamps were out and about again. Ketrin was with them on this journey, and they had ten wagons packed with trade goods to deliver to Lemos Great Lake and Far Cry Holds. The train had skirted the danger of the shifting soil, sand, and mud of the Igen River basin, but the track through the sky-broom trees could be even more treacherous.

The great trees, unique to this one long stretch of the valley, had root systems that radiated in a great circle around the trunk to support the soaring limbs and tufted heights. In the misty early morning light the sky-brooms had the appearance of skeletal giants with bushy heads of hair, and abnormally long arms that either reached for the sky or hung to knobby legs.

Only as Jayge passed them could he see the twined trunks; the more there were, the older the sky-broom. The short tufts of spiny leaves flattened out, often hiding wild wherry nests situated too high above the ground for snakes to reach and easily guarded from nest-robbing wherries. Often the crowns of coarse, short leaves would be eaten away by Threadfall. Some of the giants had fallen, leaving jagged stumps jutting high above the extensive plain. Sky-broom was a much-treasured wood, though very difficult to work, or so Jayge had heard from a Lemosan woodsman. Whole branches could be used as support beams in free-standing holds, strong enough to support the weight of a slate roof.

Jayge glanced up to see dragons flying above. The first time his little half-sister had seen the sky-broom trees she had asked if dragons landed on the flat tops. But Jayge found little humor in the innocent question. Even after so many Turns he could not help feeling a certain nervous tightening of his belly muscles whenever he saw dragons in the sky. He shaded his eyes to appraise the creatures.

“That’s not a full wing,” Crenden bellowed reassuringly.

Jayge waggled his hand above his head to indicate that he had not taken alarm; he recognized from their leisurely pace and informal pattern that the riders were probably returning to Igen Weyr from a hunt, their dragons too full in the belly to fly between. Then he heard someone shrieking and turned to look behind.

On the lookout platform of the lead wagon stood his half-sister, screaming at the top of her lungs and waving her hands, trying to attract the high-fliers. The Kimmage Hold harper had made certain that Alda had grown up with her head packed full of tradition. His brother Tino, who was old enough to remember that horrific day, watched as impassively as Jayge.

Even dragons looked small silhouetted against the sky-brooms. But splendid! Jayge was honest enough not to deny them that. He could never erase the shock and disillusion of his first meeting with a dragonrider, even after he had met many dedicated, courteous and considerate Weyrmen, but watching the dragons flow across the sky, their wings moving in unison, he experienced his usual dissatisfaction with the walking pace of both humans and runnerbeasts.

He looked down, scanning the track ahead of him. That was his responsibility today, pointing a smooth track. One had to have room to stop burden beasts: they were slow thinkers and once they got their heavy loads moving, they were not easily halted, not with all that weight behind them. The Masterherdsman in Keroon could not seem to breed all the necessary abilities into one animal. One had to choose between speed and endurance, mass and grace; intelligence seemed paired with nervousness, placidity with slow reactions. Still, their present beasts would plod on and on through the night if necessary, without once altering the rhythm of their stride.

Jayge saw a large depression—a dragon-length wide and at least five hands in depth, enough to break an axle—and signalled for his father to swing the lead wagon to the left. Crenden was marching by the yoke, his wife Jenfa and Jayge’s youngest half-brother astride the left-hand beast. Jayge trotted on ahead and stood on the far side of the dip so the other wagoners could begin to shift their line of march.

He saw the flank riders spreading the news down the long sprawl of the train. The rear wagon was just passing the first of the day’s obstacles, a huge tree stump, and he noticed that someone had climbed it and was wagging his arms in the sequence that told Jayge and his father that riders were coming up on the train fast: two riders, three runners.

“I’ll watch this, Jayge,” Crenden shouted, prodding his yoke into the new direction. “Go see. We’re a big group for any marauders to take on, but I’d rather know.”

Jayge wasted no time, untying his runnerbeast from the rear of the wagon. Kesso woke from his somnambulance the moment Jayge’s hand tugged on his reins and shook himself alert. From the moment Jayge swung up to the saddle pad, Kesso became a different animal, snorting, eager, and responsive. The rangy runner might not be as well bred as a holder’s mount, but Kesso was still winning marks in any race Jayge could enter him in.

As he cantered back along the train, he called out reassurances. “Just two riders, three beasts. Probably traders. May want to join us.” Every adult was descending to the ground, the children all packed safely inside wagons, weapons out of sight but ready to be seized.

Three wagons back Borgald raised a hand, and Jayge slowed Kesso, pulling him in to walk alongside his father’s trading partner. “I don’t even trust two riders,” the older man said. “They could be sizing us up, you know. Those recruiters stirred up a lot of filth, made ’em nervous in the low caverns—desperate, too. Don’t want ’em anywhere near us.”

Jayge smiled and nodded. Why else had Crenden sent him back to check? Borgald and Crenden had a great partnership: Borgald talked, Crenden listened. But somehow everything got resolved to the satisfaction of both. Jayge nudged Kesso forward, seeing Borgald’s oldest sons, Armald and Nazer, and his Auntie Temma already mounted and waiting for him down the line. He loosened his saddle knife. It was at such times that he wondered where his Uncle Readis had gone. Readis had been a wicked mounted fighter.

Jayge halted with Temma, Armald, and Nazer well back of their last wagon. He knew that they had a strong, well-manned train, and the sooner that was apparent to the strangers, the less trouble they would be likely to have.

The riders continued on at a steady, long-distance lope, coming at him in a straight line, jumping in and out of the root-sinks left by rotted sky-brooms—good riders on good horses.

Two men, Jayge thought, then changed his mind as they drew closer. A man and a woman, a tall one but, despite the dust cloth across the face, a woman. She pulled up just in front of the man, so Jayge looked to her for greeting.

“Bestra of Keroon Beastmasterhold,” she said with the sort of condescending air that many holders displayed to traders.

“Lilcamps’ and Trader Borgald’s train,” Jayge replied with terse courtesy. She did not even look at him, which would have been polite, but kept her eyes on to the line of wagons ahead. The man did the same, and there was something about his expression that made Jayge slide his gaze away.

“We’re after a thief,” the woman went on quickly. “A holdless man who took marks and six fine lengths of well-seasoned redfruitwood from me. Have you passed them out on the track? They’d be in a small single-yoke wagon.” She could certainly see that there was no small wagon in the crooked line detouring past sky-brooms and root holes and heading toward the foothills of the Barrier Range.

“We’ve passed no one,” Jayge answered curtly. He was aware, out of the corner of his eye, that Temma was circling her unusually restless mount. Hoping to get rid of the odd pair, he added, “We left Igen low caverns four days ago, and we’ve seen no one.”

The woman pursed her lips, her eyes flicking past him, assessing the train in a calculating manner that Jayge did not like. Her companion looked straight ahead of him, with a rigidness that was a striking contrast to her quick scrutinies.

“Trader,” she said, smiling ingratiatingly, “you’d know if there were other trails, back that way?” She pointed back over her right shoulder.

“Yes.”

She snapped him a quick hard glance, holding his eyes. “That a single yoke could travel?”

“I wouldn’t try it with any of ours,” he answered, pretending to misunderstand.

Her frustration blazed out at him, startling Jayge in its force; the emotion was a complete contrast to her oblivious companion. “I’m asking about a single cart, a thief running away with my goods,” she burst out. Startled, Kesso danced away, head high, tugging at Jayge’s strong hand.

“That sort of rig could make most of the slopes all right enough,” Armald answered, cheerfully helpful. “We’re traders, lady, but we wouldn’t harbor holdless folk. Everything in our wagons got dockets.”

“There are at least ten switchback trails up to the foothills,” Jayge said, signalling impatiently to Armald to let him do the talking. Armald, with a big frame and a threatening arrangement of thick features, was a good man to have at one’s back, but he was not clever enough to spot menace unless it came at him, swinging sword or club. Jayge pointed. “We didn’t see any new tracks, but then we weren’t looking for any.”

“Rained two nights ago. That’d help you find their tracks,” Armald added, nodding amiably.

The harm was done, and Jayge shrugged. “Good day to you,” he said and eased himself up out of the saddle, hoping that the pair would leave.

Lilcamps never got involved with local disputes and had learned to be very careful who traveled the road with them, but Jayge’s sympathies were clearly on the side of those fleeing this woman. She hauled her mount around—Jayge saw the lather marks of hard travel and the exhausted look of all three animals—and kicked it toward the foothills. The silent man turned, jerking the pack animal into motion, and followed her.

“Armald,” Jayge and Temma said at the same time over the noise of their departure. “When I do the talking, I do the talking!” Jayge continued, shaking his whip handle at the big man. “That was a Lady Holder. She was after thieves. Lilcamps and Borgalds don’t harbor thieves.”

“They weren’t holders, Jayge,” Temma said, her expression anxious. Her mount had calmed down, so Temma had been maneuvering to get a good look at the pair. “The man lost his dragon at Telgar Weyr some Turns back. He went missing from Igen a long time ago. And that woman …” Temma moved uneasily in the saddle.

“That’s Lady Thella. I told you,” Armald said. “That’s why I told her what she wanted to know.”

Temma stared at him. “You know, Jayge, he’s right. I thought she looked familiar.”

“Who’s Lady Thella? I’ve never heard of her.”

“You wouldn’t,” Temma said with a derisive snort.

“I knew her,” Armald insisted.

Temma ignored him. “She’s Lord Larad’s older sister. The one who wanted to become Lord Holder when Tarathel died. She’s no good. No good at all.”

“I used to see her in Telgar Hold; always riding about, she was.” Armald said defensively, in a sulk from the scolding. “She’s a fine-looking lady.”

Temma rolled her eyes. She was not a plain woman herself, but she was a good judge of her own sex.

“Angry sort,” Nazer said, fastening his dagger back into its sheath. “Wouldn’t bargain with that one and make a profit.”

“I think we should see them out of our range,” Temma said. “Jayge, wait until their dust dies, then follow. Make sure which track they do take. I’ll tell Crenden.”

“I’m point,” Jayge reminded her. He would not relinquish his assigned duty.

“Armald’ll finish the day for you.” She gave Jayge a wink and a nod. “He is good at noticing holes in the ground.”

“Point?” Armald’s face brightened. “I’m a good point.”

Nazer snorted. “Then get to it.” Smiling, Armald started off and Nazer turned to Temma. “What say we ride flank?”

Temma shrugged. “I don’t see the need. The mist’s lifting. We’ll get a clear view. We’ll just hang back in the rear awhile.” Then she grinned at Nazer, and Jayge, pretending not to see, ducked his head to hide his own smile. Well, Temma had been alone a long time. If she liked Nazer, Jayge would take himself off and leave them alone. Now that they were out and about, instead of in a hold, they could all spread out a bit. “Your saddlebags full enough?”

Jayge nodded, slapping the travel rations always kept on saddled mounts and, turning Kesso, began to walk him back toward the foothills.

When Giron’s sharp eyes finally found the tracks of Dowell’s cart, they had lost several more days. Thella was going to make that snotty young trader pay for his impudence. She was sure he had known exactly which of those many switchback trails the fugitives had taken. Giron said nothing that first day, still upset by the sight of those dragons, no doubt. When the creatures had appeared in the skies, winging directly toward them, he became all but paralyzed. Only because his mount was used to following hers did it keep on.

When they had stopped for the first night, she had had to make camp, force him to dismount, and peel back his fingers from the lead rope. She debated leaving him to recover on his own, but she might need assistance separating the girl from her family.

She was glad she had not left him because he did, in the end, revive sufficiently to catch what she nearly missed: the mark of wagon wheels on the soft mud of the track.

“Smarter than I figured, for he must have tried to hide his tracks,” she muttered, incensed by Dowell’s shrewdness. She could not figure out why he had left so precipitously. She was certain that she had been tactful and careful—he had started work on the carvings just as if he had planned to finish them. Ten marks would have been a goodly addition for one planning a long journey.

Suddenly Brare came to mind. Had that crippled fool warned Dowell? Not likely, if the girl was as valuable to the cavern’s hunters as Brare had said. They would not have done anything to scare her away. Could it have been Giron’s surveillance? Maybe the dragonless man had unnerved the family. Giron could unsettle her from time to time, as he had yesterday going into that trance fit. Or perhaps someone had let slip her identity, and Dowell had panicked. Well, she would make sure of Brare’s loyalty the next time she came to the Igen low caverns!

“Thread?” That was the first word Giron had said in three days, but for once he did not sound certain. He tried to see past the branches obscuring the sky. The forest was thick there, though a lot of it was new growth. Throwing the lead rope at her, he forced his runner up the bank and then, using the beast as a prop, agilely climbed a well-branched tree.

“Watch yourself!” she called when the trunk swayed with his weight. “Well, what do you see?” He gave her no answer, and she was ready to follow him when he started down. His face was bleak. “Dragons? Is there Thread?” He shook his head.

“Well, one dragon, two, how many? Hunting?”

“One, hunting. Hide.”

The trace was not completely sheltered by the branches, and most of the shedding trees had lost their leaves. She and Giron would be visible from the air. Thella, urging her mount up the bank, was nearly pulled from the saddle by the recalcitrant lead runner, but she got in among a copse of evergreens, while Giron, his body flattened against the trunk, kept his eyes skyward. His mouth opened, almost as if he wanted to cry out to the rider, to make himself known. Thella caught her breath, but he seemed to thin against the trunk, as if all the substance drained from him. He stood there so long that Thella was afraid he was paralyzed again.

“Giron? What’s happening?”

“Two more dragons. Looking.”

“For us? Or Dowell?”

“How would I know? But they carry firestone sacks.”

“You mean, there’s Thread coming?” Thella cast about in her mind, trying to remember the nearest shelter. “Get down out of there. We’ve got to move!”

Giron gave her a faintly contemptuous look, but she said nothing to challenge it, she was so relieved that he had not frozen in the tree.

“These are Lord Asgenar’s precious woods,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of dragonmen to see no Thread penetrates here.”

“That’s all well and good, and I’m no more afraid of Threadfall than you are, but I can’t say the same for these runners. We’ve got to get them out of sight.”

When they found it, the shelter was barely adequate, but at least it was deep enough so they could fit the three runners inside. What the stupid beasts did not see would not upset them. By the time the Thread had passed, Thella had fretted herself into a frenzy. As soon as Giron was certain that the final Edge had passed them, she insisted on moving out.

“If that girl is Threadscored …” She left the threat hanging as she swung up onto her runner. She had an awful vision of the girl’s body twisting as Thread engulfed it. Seeing the scorn in Giron’s eyes, she clamped down on her anxiety, but the thought that she might have lost her quarry to Thread made her frantic to know, one way or the other.

“Thella,” Giron said with unexpected authority. “Keep an eye skyward. They’ll be extra-thorough over forest.”

He was right, she knew, and she spurred the beast forward. “There’s not much light left, and I need to know!”

It was she who saw the next telltale. Someone had rubbed out wheel marks, for the signs of sweeping were obvious once she had seen the cake of dirt, too obviously prized out of a wheel hub. Dismounting, each searched one side of the track; Giron found the wagon on the left, reasonably well hidden behind screening evergreens. He was peering within when Thella reached him and pushed him out of the way in her impatience.

“Rummaged around looking for what to take with them,” Giron said.

“Then they’re nearby.”

Giron shrugged. “Too dark to look now.” He held up his hand warningly as she jerked the reins on the runner to bring him close enough to be mounted. “Look, if they’re dead, they’re dead, and your stumbling around in the dark isn’t going to revive them. If they’re safe, they’re not going anywhere now.” The fact that he was right did little to soothe Thella. “I’ll sleep in the wagon tonight.”

“No, I’ll sleep in the wagon tonight. You take the runners back to the cave. Join me at first light tomorrow.” She took the blanket and journey rations out of her pack and sent him away. “First light! Remember!”

This might be even better, Thella thought. Stay by the wagon and see who comes by in the morning to check on it. Aramina was the oldest. That would be too much luck, she realized, chewing the dry food. But she would prefer not to be encumbered with the whole family. If she could just spirit Aramina away …

“More dragonriders?” Thella was incredulous. “What are they doing around here?”

“How should I know?” Giron replied, showing the first sign of anger she had ever seen from him. He sank down, knees cocked, forearms lax across them, staring straight in front of him.

“But Threadfall was yesterday. They should be gone!” She shook his arm. How dare he look away like that! “A bad Thread infestation?” Accustomed as she was to Thread, her breath caught at the idea of a burrow taking hold in the forest anywhere near her. “Is that why?”

Giron shook his head. “If Thread had burrowed overnight, there wouldn’t be any forest left. And we’d be dead.”

“Well, then, why? Could that dragon yesterday have seen you?”

Giron made a mirthless sound and got to his feet. “If you want that girl, you’d better find out where she is. They can’t have gone far. They wouldn’t have left the wagon.”

Thella was trying to marshal her thoughts. “Could the Weyrs have found out about her?”

“Weyrs have plenty of people who hear dragons,” he said scornfully.

“She could have been Searched, couldn’t she? I heard there were eggs on Benden’s Hatching Ground. That’s why. C’mon. They’re not going to take that girl. She’s mine!”

It was well they were on foot, the runners still hidden, for they were able to hide when the troop of mounted men rode by.

“Asgenar’s foresters,” Thella said, brushing leaf mold from her face. “Shells and shards.”

“No girl with them.”

“They were looking for us! I know it,” she said, cursing as she veered around a thicket. “C’mon, Giron. We’ll find that girl. We’ll find her. Then we’ll pay back that Lilcamp trader boy. Cripple his beasts, burn the wagons. They won’t get as far as the lake, you can be sure of that. I’ll get him for informing on me. I’ll get him!”

“Lady Holdless,” Giron said in such a derisive tone that she paused in her furious progress. “You’ll be got if you’re not quieter moving through this forest. And look, someone’s been this way recently. The bushes are broken. Let’s follow the signs.”

The broken bushes led them to the scuffed marks and prints on the track of horses, men, and dragons. Through the trees they could see movement and caught a glimpse of a man. He was not Dowell, for Dowell did not wear leather or a weapon’s harness. They crossed the track carefully, working slowly uphill toward the edge of a nut forest. Then Giron pulled her down.

“Dragon. Bronze,” he whispered in her ear.

She felt a flush of irritation with Giron. He had been right to be so cautious. That annoyed her almost as much as finding her quarry guarded by a dragon. Why had the dragonriders not just taken the girl away? Or was this a trap for Thella? How could they possibly know that she wanted Aramina? Had Brare spoken out of turn? Or that impudent fellow at the trader wagons? Did he talk to dragons, too?

Then she caught sight of someone moving through the grove. Picking nuts? Thella stared in astonishment. Yes, the girl was picking nuts. And there was a guard helping her. Thella closed her eyes to blot out the sight of her quarry so near and so unattainable. She and Giron would be lucky to get out of there with their skins. She pulled her arm away resentfully when she felt Giron tug at her sleeve. Then she saw him pointing.

The girl was moving farther and farther from the guard. Just a little farther, Thella thought. Just a little farther, you dear sweet child. And she began to grin as she indicated to Giron to help her outflank the girl. The guard was not looking downhill. If they were careful … they would be. Thella held her breath as she moved forward.

Giron got to Aramina first and grabbed her, one hand on her mouth, the other pinning her arms to her side.

“It falls out well, after all, Giron,” Thella said, snatching a handful of hair and pulling the girl’s head back, giving her a little pain back for all the trouble she had caused. Thella thoroughly enjoyed the fright and terror in Aramina’s eyes. “We have snared the wild wherry after all.”

They began to pull her back down the hill, out of sight of the guard. “Don’t struggle, girl, or I’ll knock you senseless. Maybe I ought to, Thella,” he added, cocking his fist in preparation. “If she can hear dragons, they can hear her.”

“She’s never been to a Weyr,” Thella replied, but she was struck with the possibility. She gave Aramina’s hair a savage jerk. “Don’t even think of calling for a dragon.”

“Too late!” Giron cried in a strangled voice. He heaved the girl from him, toward the point where the ground fell away at the edge of the grove.

Thella let out a hoarse cry as the bronze dragon blocked the girl’s fall. The dragon bellowed, his breath hot enough to startle Thella into running as fast as she could, Giron a stride behind her. As they slithered and fell, they could hear others calling. Thella spared one look over her shoulder and saw the dragon crashing among the trees, unable to dodge through them as agilely as the humans could. The dragon roared his frustration. Thella and Giron kept running.