10

Southern Continent, PP 15.05.22–15.08.03

As Piemur entered Toric’s private room, he shot a quick glance at the inner wall to his left and saw that the hold map was, as usual, covered. Since Piemur had contributed many of the latest entries, he was amused by the man’s paranoid secrecy. Saneter was sitting on the edge of his bench, agitatedly rubbing his swollen knuckles. Piemur could tell nothing from Toric’s expression, which was a bad sign, especially when considering that he had returned from Big Lagoon to find the entire hold in a frenzy of indignation, outrage, and fright. Farli had chittered irrationally about dragons flaming her, then had disappeared. He had noticed that there were not many fire-lizards about, but there had been no time to look into the matter, as he had been ordered to report to Toric immediately.

“So, what have I done wrong this time?” Piemur asked brazenly.

“Nothing, unless your conscience is heavy,” Toric said edgily and Piemur immediately altered his expression and manner to respectful attentiveness. “Why would all the dragonriders leave?” the Holder went on.

“They’ve left?” Piemur wondered that Toric was not ecstatic. He glanced at Saneter for confirmation and the old harper flapped his fingers in a confusing sign that the boy could not interpret. When T’ron had died, T’kul had insisted that he was Weyrleader, and the situation at Southern Weyr had deteriorated rapidly. None of the other bronze riders had contested T’kul, but no one was happy with his irrational attitudes and demands.

“There isn’t a male dragon anywhere,” Toric said, rubbing his chin on his fist. “Only Mardra’s queen is weyred, and she’s more dead than asleep.” Toric was rarely without some course of action; not always one that Saneter—and sometimes Piemur—approved, but one generally guaranteed to protect Southern Hold. “There isn’t Threadfall,” he went on, not hiding his contempt for the Southern dragonriders who so seldom stirred themselves to perform traditional duties. “So I can’t think why all the males would just take off.”

“Nor I,” Piemur agreed. His voice must have sounded a little too cheerful, for Toric gave him a long measuring stare. Piemur waited patiently. Toric obviously had something in mind.

“You like it here, don’t you?” the holder finally asked.

“My first loyalty is to my Craftmaster,” Piemur replied, holding Toric’s gaze. So far Piemur had managed to retain his first allegiance, warped a trifle, but unsullied.

“Understood.” Toric flicked his fingers in acceptance of Piemur’s response. “But my first loyalty is not to those—those sisters’ mothers.”

“Understood.” Piemur grinned at the description of the Oldtimers, though the incestuous implications drew a gargled protest from Saneter. “And I’m sure you already know that you’ve got your Southern holders behind you all the way,” he added, thinking that was the reassurance Toric wanted.

“Of course I do!” Toric flicked his fingers again impatiently. “What I need is to be distanced, officially, from whatever that lot is now up to.”

“What could they be up to?” There were not that many Oldtimers to be effective at anything: both men and dragons were old, tired and more pathetic than dangerous. Except T’kul—lately no hold woman was safe from that womanizer.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t worry. I do so now, officially, in the presence of two journeyman harpers, disclaim any knowledge or part in any Southern dragonrider activity.”

“Heard and witnessed,” Saneter said, and Piemur echoed the formal words. “But I do think that you should inform the Weyrleaders. They are, after all, the best ones to deal with other dragonriders.”

“They can’t, and they won’t,” Toric said, his voice grating angrily, “interfere with the Oldtimers. They made that clear enough to me.”

“At least Benden keeps its word,” Piemur muttered, aware of just how much latitude Toric had given himself after his discussion two Turns before with the Benden Weyrleaders. When Toric gave him a cold and calculating stare, Piemur held up both hands in apology for his impudence. “I could send Farli—if I can get my hands on her—with a warning to T’gellan that the Oldtimers have all vacated. You owe Benden that.”

Toric considered, scowling and rattling his fingers on the worktable.

“I did report those peculiar exercises they were doing a few days ago, popping in and out of between. It still makes no sense, but maybe the Weyr can figure it out.” Piemur realized that Toric would rather see the Oldtimers do something so dire and unforgivable that the Northern Weyrs would be forced to confront the problem they posed.

Neither could have guessed what the Oldtimers were attempting until three days later. Abruptly Mnementh appeared in the sky over Southern, Ramoth following a second later, swooping across the Hold clearing toward the Weyr. Piemur was astonished enough to see the two great Benden dragons, but when he realized that they were riderless, his heart began to pound with dread. Had some incredible disaster occurred in Benden? What could possibly have caused Mnementh and Ramoth to come here on their own? He raced for Toric’s hold to find the holder and old Saneter outside, staring skyward in consternation.

“Why would dragons come here without their riders?” Toric asked, his eyes never leaving the beasts as they wheeled above the Weyr, heads down, eyes a brilliant orange. “Those are too big to be Oldtimer beasts.”

“It’s Ramoth and Mnementh,” Piemur replied, his anxiety increasing as he noted the color of their eyes.

“What are they doing here?” Toric’s voice sounded slightly strained.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Piemur admitted, shading his eyes and hoping to see the dragons’ eyes turning a less agitated shade.

“They’re searching the Weyr. What for?” Saneter asked in a fearful murmur.

Suddenly Ramoth flung her head up, uttering the most poignantly sorrowful cry Piemur had ever heard. Not the keen of mourning, but a weird and terrible anguished plaint. Despite the heat of the day he shuddered, the flesh on his arms rising in chill bumps. Even Toric paled slightly, and Saneter gave a moan. Mnementh’s deeper voice echoed his queen’s in a discordant tone that increased the pathos of their call.

Then, as abruptly as they had arrived, the two dragons disappeared. For a long moment, the holder and the two harpers remained motionless. Finally Toric exhaled in gusty relief. “Now what was that all about, Piemur?”

Piemur shook his head. “Whatever’s happened, it’s bad.”

“Bloody Oldtimers! If they’ve compromised me …” Toric shook his fist at the Weyr.

“Oh!” Saneter’s astonished exclamation brought their attention to the nine bronzes that were sweeping in. One circled to land, while the others began a quartering search, their feet flicking the topmost foliage, making it look as if they were walking on the forest roof.

“That’s Lioth and N’ton,” Piemur said. He was relieved until he saw the bronze rider’s dark expression as he dismounted and strode purposefully up to them. Then anxiety came flooding back. “Ramoth and Mnementh were just here—riderless. What’s happened?”

“Ramoth’s queen egg has been stolen from the Hatching Ground.”

“Stolen?” The word erupted from Toric’s lips as he stared with utter disbelief at the bronze rider. Saneter gasped and covered his eyes. Piemur swore.

“It is regrettable that we hesitated to inform you of their recent erratic behavior—” Toric lifted both hands in mute apology. “But who would have expected them to commit such a heinous crime against the Weyrs?” He sounded unusually subdued. “How could they hope to … how could that help? Where could they hide—no, not here!” He lifted his hands, fending off the mere hint of any complicity. “Search! Search!” He gestured expansively. “Look everywhere!”

“It is apparently a matter of everywhen,” N’ton said grimly. Piemur groaned, suddenly understanding the significance of the Oldtimers’ latest exercises: They had been practicing going between times, a dangerous use of draconic abilities, even for the best of reasons—which Lessa’s famous ride had been, but which stealing an egg was not.

Toric looked inquiringly at N’ton, expecting an explanation; then he gave Piemur a hard and significant look.

“Toric has nothing to hide, N’ton,” Piemur said solemnly, recalling their recent interview and Toric’s request. “Saneter and I give you our oath on that!”

N’ton nodded gravely and returned to Lioth, springing to take his place on the bronze’s back. Toric and the two harpers watched until the dragons had swept beyond their line of sight, frantically inspecting the surrounding forest.

“What do we do now?” Toric asked in a low voice.

“Hope,” Piemur replied, wishing fervently that he had sent Farli when he could. Although who could have suspected those depraved fools to be mad enough to steal an egg from Ramoth? How could any strange dragons have got into the Benden Hatching Ground? Ramoth rarely left it. And how could they have left the Ground without being intercepted?

The next few hours were exceedingly anxious. But just when Piemur had made himself ill with imagining the consequences—for the Oldtimers as well as for Southern Hold—Tris, N’ton’s brown fire-lizard, appeared with a message on his leg for Piemur. He was also wearing an intricate neck design, an addition so recent that the paint still glistened.

Unrolling the message as he ran, Piemur raced for Toric’s office. “It’s all right, Toric! The egg’s back!”

“What? How? Let me see!” Toric grabbed the note from Piemur’s hands and, with unusual openness, muttered the tightly written words aloud.

“So!” Toric said, leaning back in his chair. He tapped the message against his desk. “So the Oldtimers have compromised only themselves. That is a relief.”

“If you see it as one,” Piemur murmured, and abruptly strode out of the hold. Toric could be as relieved as he wished, but Piemur was far from easy. The Masterharper exiled from Benden? That was bloody awful. The more he thought of the consequences of such an estrangement, the more depressed he became. It had come so frighteningly near the worst catastrophe that could afflict Pern—dragon fighting dragon. Those accursed Oldtimers! What consummate fools! Especially T’kul, who undoubtedly had instigated the senseless scheme. There would be retribution for their act, and Piemur devoutly hoped that the future of Southern Hold—and Toric’s ambitions—had not been jeopardized. But he worried most of all about Master Robinton’s anomalous situation.

The Oldtimers returned late that afternoon. It was a small satisfaction to Piemur, when Toric sent him to check, to note the utter dejection and the drained color of every single Oldtimer dragon. The dragons were too exhausted by their failure even to eat and most of the riders were intent on getting very drunk.

“That’s nothing new,” Toric replied when Piemur reported to him. “Shards, but I don’t think there’s much to choose between Northern and Southern dragonriders,” Toric went on, pacing the length of his workroom. He did not seem to notice that he was kicking furniture out of his way and knocking objects off tables with impatient sweeps of his hands. He had kept his temper during the day and was still wound tight as a screw. “But how could I have suspected they’d try something like stealing Ramoth’s queen egg? Believe me, boy, T’kul and those randy riders of his did steal that egg. No question of it in my mind.” Piemur nodded agreement, hoping Toric would just leave matters lie for a while. “I should have guessed that they’d be desperate for a queen to mate with those bronzes while there’s enough energy in any of them to fly her. I’d say they waited too long! I don’t know who did restore Ramoth’s egg, but by Faranth, I’m grateful to him. It was close there today, boy. Damned close. Those Northern dragons could have charred everything—Hold and Weyr.” Another wide sweep of Toric’s hand knocked Records to the floor. “I don’t like the Oldtimers, but not even I would want dragon to fight dragon.”

“Don’t even think about it, Toric,” Piemur said and shivered. That possibility had been so frighteningly imminent.

“For a little while there, I saw everything I’ve worked twenty Turns to accomplish about to be ruined.” Another sweep of Toric’s arm knocked a glowbasket from the wall bracket and spilled its contents over the Records. Piemur grabbed them out of the way and closed the basket, stamping at the spillage. “I’m going to set a watch on those Oldtimers, Piemur. I’ll have Saneter draw up a roster. I can’t let something else happen. I was hoping to have a few words with F’lar …” Piemur nearly choked at that bit of arrogance. “No, I guess this wasn’t the time for it,” the holder added with a rueful shake of his head. “That Masterharper of yours has good ideas. I’d like you to get in touch with him about this.” Toric turned to look sharply at Piemur.

The boy cleared his throat and scratched his head, avoiding Toric’s eyes. He did not wish to mention Master Robinton’s now tenuous influence on the Benden Weyrleaders.

“I took a close look at the dragons, Toric, and honestly, I think time is on your side. Stealing the egg, and I agree with you that they did even if Benden couldn’t prove it, took almost every ounce of strength they had. I think you’re absolutely right that we should keep a discreet watch on them. It’d be easier if the fire-lizards would go anywhere near the Weyr, but Farli’s still chattering about dragons flaming her. Have yours?”

“I haven’t had time for fire-lizards today, with full-grown Northern dragons breathing firestone stench in my face,” Toric replied acidly.

“So this time we inform Benden Weyr the moment suspicious behavior starts,” Piemur went on blithely, hoping to talk Toric out of any plans that included Master Robinton. “I want to tell you, Toric, I really admired the way you handled yourself with N’ton!”

“Thank you,” Toric said sarcastically.

“You’re welcome,” Piemur snapped back in the same tone. Then he grinned smugly and remarked with calculated insolence. “You’d have been in far worse case if Saneter and I hadn’t stood your witness!”

At that reminder, Toric reacted, first with a hard stare and then with a bellow of laughter. “Yes, you and old Saneter did come across, and for that I am genuinely grateful, Journeyman Harper.”

“Indebted, in fact,” Piemur suggested with a wry grin.

“Now, another thing …” Toric—the laugh had relaxed him a little—sat on the edge of his worktable, arms folded across his chest, his right hand fiddling with the holder knot on his shoulder. “You’ve ridden dragons. Just how much do you think they saw?”

Piemur snorted. “Shards, Toric, they were looking for a place an egg could harden, or for Oldtimer browns and bronzes. They wouldn’t have noticed anything else in the state they were in. Well, T’bor might have, but you’ve been mighty careful where you’ve allowed all our new arrivals to site their holds.” Piemur grinned slyly. “Hamian’s mine would appear to be basically the same from the air; all the other adits look like the holes in the ground they are; the wharf and hold on Island River shouldn’t be visible from the sky; Big Lagoon Hold is large, that’s true, and there’d have been fishing ships out in that direction …” Piemur shrugged. “Maybe later T’bor or F’nor, someone familiar with Southern, will ask some awkward questions. I doubt it. The interdiction still holds. They came to retrieve the egg. It got back all by itself. They left.” Piemur was beginning to suspect who might have returned the egg, but he had absolutely no evidence with which to prove it.

“And we still have those bloody Oldtimers to deal with.” But there was less force in the kick Toric gave the table leg.

“They haven’t hindered your plans all that much, now, have they?” Piemur said drolly. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. I’d bide my time, Toric.”

“You’re with me, then?”

“If today didn’t prove that, I don’t know what will,” Piemur said, cocking his head to one side. He liked Toric, admired him, but he did not entirely trust him. Which was fair. Toric did not completely trust Piemur, especially not too often in Sharra’s company. Piemur had noticed how Toric tried to keep them apart; the holder had just given Sharra her long-sought permission to go on an adventurous trip south, beyond Hamian’s mines. “So, if we’re back to normal tomorrow, I’d like to see what’s beyond that headland east of Island River. Maybe even get as far as the cove that Menolly found when they were storm-lost.” He noticed the alertness in Toric’s eyes. The holder had not liked that inadvertent excursion; he had always been suspicious of just how far Menolly and the Masterharper had gone, though he could never deny that they had been storm-driven, and that only Menolly’s sea skills had kept the small boat afloat. “A dragon can’t go between to a place he’s never seen,” Piemur reminded the Southerner. “Likewise, a man can’t hold what he hasn’t beheld! How about it, Toric?”

Stupid led the way out of the brushland, pushing through the tangle with his sturdy front end, his hide too tough to be pierced by branch and thorn. From above, Farli was giving directions, and Piemur thrashed at the vegetation with the thick blade Hamian had forged for him.

He came out on a beach that sloped down to the sea, a pale green expanse of water ruffled with whitecaps from the onshore breeze. He sighed at the splendid view, then looked back the way he had come, at the thick trees waving their fronds and leaves. He took a redfruit from the pack on Stupid’s back, nicked it expertly with his chopper, and sucked at the sweet, thirst-quenching flesh. Stupid complained. He chopped off a hunk and fed it to the little runnerbeast, who munched contentedly.

But when Piemur turned to look down the narrow bay, he froze. He could not believe his eyes. He fumbled for the small distance-viewer he had wheedled away from Master Rampesi, who had just received a more powerful device from Starmaster Wansor; it had not done him much good with his nighttime stargazing, but it had been useful in surveying terrain. When he had focused it, there was no doubt that smoke was rising languidly from the chimney of a good-sized building, high up on the riverbank. It was roofed, big, and had a wide porch, probably on all four sides, with steps leading up to it on the two sides visible to him. Other buildings, large and small, were positioned nearby, making it a sizable settlement. A small sloop was drawn up on the shore, although he could see the stumps of pilings jutting out into the river that might once have been a pier, and fishnets hung on a rack to dry. Colored fishnets! Even through the distance-viewer, he could make out the yellows, greens, blues, and reds.

“There isn’t anyone in all this part of the world, Stupid. There just isn’t. I haven’t seen anyone in months. Toric certainly doesn’t know. Shipwreck?” Piemur searched his memory. There had been quite a few shipwrecks—and the number was growing. “That’s what they are. Shipwrecked. And colored fishnets? Toric won’t like this.”

A pair of fire-lizards appeared overhead, but they did not fly low enough for him to get a close look. Farli joined them in the usual aerial dance. He had seen numerous fire-lizard nests along the coast, even some unplundered golds. But Toric had definitely stated that there would be no more trade of eggs with the north. Farli swooped to his shoulder, wrapping her tail about his neck and chittering unintelligibly about men and lots of things piled on the beach.

“Houses are not piles,” Piemur stated firmly. But the incident with the northern dragons had taught him to pay attention to Farli’s incomprehensible statements. For the last few days she had been trying to tell him something that she had learned only recently. Eventually it would all make sense to him, just as he had deciphered her comments about the Black Rock River, which they had had such trouble negotiating. He had not expected such an immense inland sea, with distant islands lost in the misty rain.

Piemur’s cautionary instinct had sharpened on the long and solitary eastward journey. And though he was eager to talk to someone besides himself, he was also strangely loath to initiate a meeting. Nevertheless he proceeded down the long strand to the river’s mouth, struggling up dunes and treading carefully through the salt grasses, prodding ahead of his feet with his snake-stick, Stupid a pace behind him, Farli swooping up and back, flitting away and returning.

There were people, she told him, but not the men. Not the other men.

It was almost time for the precipitous sunset of those parts when Piemur finally got close enough to see that some of the buildings were derelict, with plants growing out of the windows and through cracks in the roofs. Several were bigger than anything Toric had yet permitted to be built, and they tended to be more wide open to air and sun than anyone dared build in the north, though the facing material was beautifully fit stone. The roofs seemed to be sheer slabs, finger thick. He remembered the exceedingly durable mine props that Hamian had found solidly in place after who knew how many Turns.

And there were people. He dropped down on the sand, getting a mouthful, when he saw a man walking from what had to be a beasthold toward the steps of the wide verandah. Canines, large ones to judge by their deep voices, began to bark somewhere behind the house.

“Ara!” The man’s call brought a woman out of the house, followed by a toddling child. There was a touching moment of embrace, then the man scooped the child up and, with one arm around the woman, entered the house.

“A family, Stupid. There’s a family living here, with a big house, lots of rooms, more than three people need. Why’d they build it so big? Or are there others inside?”

Four fire-lizards, two gold, a bronze, and a brown, suddenly came out of nowhere and hovered on wing above him before disappearing. Although Farli was not alarmed, Piemur was.

“O-ho, we’ve been spotted. Well, fire-lizard friends can’t be all bad, can they, Stupid? Let’s go forth like brave men and get this over with.” He got to his feet and approached the building, shouting at the top of his well-trained lungs. “Hello the house! Let’s hope there’s enough dinner for four, huh, Stupid? Hello there!”

There was glad astonishment and a warm, if shy, welcome from the shipwrecked couple, as well as an immediate invitation to share their meal, which was cooking over a most fascinating stove. The man, Jayge, tanned and well-muscled, was several Turns older and taller by several handwidths than the harper. He had an open face, a nose slightly bent out of line from some brawl, light-colored eyes, and a steady gaze. He wore a sleeveless vest and short pants of roughly spun cotton, and around his lean hips was a fine leather belt from which hung a bone-handled knife. On his feet were rather ingenious sandals that protected toes and heels but were open across the foot. They looked much more comfortable and cooler than the heavy boots Piemur wore.

Ara was younger, with an appealing face that looked both innocent and yet was oddly mature; at times she looked sad. Her black hair was braided down her back, but curls escaped the plait to frame her face. She wore a loose, sleeveless cotton dress, dyed a deep red and embroidered on scoop neck and hem, a narrow leather belt dyed a red to match her dress, and red leather sandals. She was utterly charming, and Piemur did not miss Jayge’s proud and proprietary gaze.

While Piemur ate his way through the best meal he had eaten since he had left Southern, he listened to Jayge and Ara tell of their adventures, occasionally throwing in a question or a comment to encourage them to add details.

“We were hired at Keroon Beastmasterhold,” Jayge told him, “about thirty months ago—we lost an accurate track of time in the storm and during our first days here. We were transporting some expensive breeding stock for Master Rampesi, to be delivered to Holder Toric at the Southern Hold. Would you know him?”

“I do. I remember how mad Rampesi was when he had to admit your ship must have gone down. You were lucky to survive.”

“We very nearly didn’t,” Jayge said, giving Ara a sideways glance and laying his arm across her shoulders, his expression tenderly amused. “Ara here insists that we were dragged to shore by shipfish.”

“Quite likely,” Piemur assured him, grinning at Jayge’s surprise and Ara’s triumphant cry. “Every Masterfisherman worth his knots will agree: Master Rampesi has told me of men falling overboard and being lifted up by shipfish. He’s seen the phenomenon himself, and he’s not given to harper tales. That’s why Fishcrafthallers are so glad to see them escorting a ship out to sea. Means good luck.”

“But the storm was incredibly powerful,” Jayge objected.

“So are they—and quite at home in stormy seas. You’re the only survivors?”

When Ara looked stricken, Jayge answered quickly. “No, but one man was so badly hurt, we never even learned his name. Festa and Scallak had broken leg and arm bones; I’d snapped my wrist and a few ribs; but Ara set us all and healed us straight.” He twisted his left hand to prove the mend, smiling at Ara. “We were quite a sight then, only three good arms and four legs among us, except for Ara, who nursed and fed us all.” He shot his young wife a look of such tender pride that Piemur almost blushed. “We were getting along fine here, even tamed some wild beasts—Ara’s got a gift with animals—when first Festa and then Scallak caught some kind of a fever, terrible headaches … they went blind.” He broke off, frowning at the memory.

“Fire-head, probably,” Piemur said, breaking the silence to relieve Ara’s obvious distress at the memory. “It has a high mortality rate if you don’t know the cure.”

“There is one?” Ara’s eyes widened. “I tried everything I knew. I felt so helpless, and ever since I’ve been afraid …”

“Don’t fret yourself. Look—” Piemur hauled his pack over and pulled out a small vial, which he handed to her. “I’ve medicine here. Instructions on it, as you see. Just don’t go near beaches stained yellow. It’s at its worst in mid- or late spring. And now that we know where you are, I’ll see that Sharra—she’s had Healer Hall training—sends you a record of symptoms and treatment for some of the southern nasties.”

“I hope we’ve found most of them,” Jayge said with a rueful grin, rubbing the scar on his forearm. Piemur recognized the blemish as an old needlethorn infection.

“That’s the hard way to learn what to avoid. I’d say you’d done pretty well here.” Piemur was fascinated with the material of the house.

“We found all this,” Jayge said, his gesture including the house and the buildings beyond.

“Found it?”

Jayge grinned, his teeth very white in his tanned face. He had curious yellow-green eyes, with flecks of dark in them, and a one-sided smile that Piemur liked. “Found the whole settlement. Mind you, it saved our lives. There were appalling storms for weeks after we were swept in here.” He paused, hesitant. “I didn’t think anyone had been allowed to settle in the south, except at Southern Hold. This isn’t part of Southern, is it, and we just didn’t search far enough west?”

“Ah, to be honest with you …” Piemur hesitated only a moment, for Toric could not possibly expect to claim the entire south. “No, this isn’t Southern Hold!” Seeing that his vehemence had surprised both Jayge and Ara, he smiled to reassure them. “You’re a long way from where you were supposed to land those beasts. A long way.” Piemur decided it would also be a very long time before Toric discovered their existence. “Hold hard to what you’ve got here,” he added blithely, and looked admiringly around at the gracious proportions of the room in which they ate. With its wide windows, louvered on the inside, it was unlike even freestanding hold rooms. The inside walls were not of the same stone as the outside and were colored very cool green blue. Jayge had fashioned sconces for candles Ara had made from berry wax, so the room was pleasantly lit. “How big is this house you found?”

“More than we need right now,” Ara said, swatting at Jayge affectionately when he winked at Piemur. Though her figure was not yet distorted, the harper had suspected she might be pregnant again. There was a luminous quality to her eyes and face that Sharra had told him often enhanced the beauty of a gravid woman. “Twelve rooms, but some would be awfully small to house a whole family. We had to shovel out the sand in the front rooms. The walls were filthy; I was afraid we’d have to scrub them clean, but the dirt sort of slid off when we washed them. I haven’t quite got the stains completely off, but now you can see what pretty colors they used.”

“We fixed this roof with slabs taken from the other ones,” Jayge said. “I’ve never seen material like this before. And we shouldn’t have been able to nail it, but Ara found a keg of nails that would penetrate and hold.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ara went on with an air of confession. “The house is unusual, but the thick walls keep us cool in the heat of the day and warm enough on cold ones. We found the strangest-looking containers, most of them empty. Jayge laughs at me, but I know we’ll find something to tell us who lived here before we did.”

“I’d like to know when you do,” Piemur said. “Did you find those colored fishnets here?”

They both grinned, exchanging glances, and Jayge explained. “We found lots of empty nets stored in one corner of the largest building. It had neither porch nor windows but it did have vents along the roof, so we figured it may have been a storehouse. Snakes and other insects had destroyed whatever was in the crates and barrels and those nets, but the material they were made of seems indestructible.”

“It’d have to be, to last any length of time here in the south,” Piemur said casually, though he was more excited about the settlement than he dared express. The Harper should know about it. He wondered if he should send Farli with a message to Master Robinton but decided that it could wait until morning. “So you’ve fished, and you’ve stock …”

“I’ll have to introduce you to the dogs tomorrow,” Ara said. “We have them against snakes and big spotted cats.”

“You have them here, too?” Piemur asked eagerly. Sharra had thought those cats a local sport—she would be interested to know that they inhabited other parts of the Southern Continent.

“Enough so that we don’t hunt without the dogs,” Jayge said. “And we carry spear or bow and arrow once we pass the clearings.”

“But there’s wild rice,” Ara put in enthusiastically, “and all kinds of vegetables—even a grove of the oldest fellis trees I’ve ever seen!” She waved to the east of the hold. “We’ve floods of wild wherry, and runner and herd beasts grazing in the river valley, a day’s good run from here. Jayge is a good spearman.”

“And you’ve never missed with bow and arrow,” Jayge said proudly. “And—” Jayge grinned at Piemur. “We’ve a fair home brew.” He went to a wall cupboard, fashioned out of one of the crates he had mentioned, and opened it to display two small barrels, their shape reminiscent of much larger ones Piemur had seen at the Benden Mastervintner’s. “We’ve been experimenting,” Jayge went on, pouring three cups and serving them. “And it’s improving!”

Piemur sniffed and found its aroma odd, not as fruity as he had expected. He took a sip.

“Ooooh, that’s great stuff!” His appreciation was genuine as he felt the shock of it coursing pleasantly through him. He raised his cup to the smiling Ara and Jayge in a toast. “To friends, near and far!”

“I think it’ll improve with age,” Jayge remarked with quiet satisfaction after he and Ara had solemnly returned the toast. “But for a trader’s brew, it’s passable.”

“I could be prejudiced, or maybe I’ve just lost my palate, but Jayge, this’s smooth to lip, mouth, and throat, and a tonic to blood and bone.”

They talked long into the crystal clear, chill early hours of the morning until sheer fatigue slowed both question and answer. If Piemur had extracted from them an account of their establishment there, he had replied with eagerly received news of the North—expurgated, of course, and embellished when the incident deserved his harper’s touch. Piemur had introduced himself with rank, craft, and hold affiliation and explained that his current task was to explore the coast. Jayge had responded that he was a trader by craft and that Ara was from Igen. There was something that they were not revealing, Piemur was quick enough to realize, but then, he had not told them the entire truth either.

Piemur remained with Jayge and Ara for longer than he should have. Not only did he admire their fortitude and industry—even Toric would consider them resourceful and diligent—but also he wanted time to delve into the mystery of the buildings there on the far edge of nowhere. In the oldest of the Harper Hall Records, there had been elusive fragments, which Piemur, as Master Robinton’s special apprentice, had been allowed to see. When man came to Pern, he established a good Hold in the South, one fragment had begun, only to conclude ambiguously, but found it necessary to move north to shield. Like Robinton, Piemur had always wondered why anyone would have left the beautiful and fertile Southern Continent and settle the far harsher north. But it must have happened—the discovery of the ancient mine had been evidence of that. And now these incredible buildings!

Piemur could not imagine how building materials could have lasted so long. It could only be more of those forgotten methods and lost secrets that Mastersmith Fandarel had complained about so often, and which his Crafthall was trying to revive.

That first morning, with young Readis toddling when he could and carried when he tired, Jayge and Ara showed Piemur around what had clearly once been an extensive settlement.

“We’ve torn down most of the creepers and shoveled out some of the blown sand,” Jayge said, leading the way into a one-room building. The two big, rangy canines—the black one was Chink and the brindle, Giri—always preceded their masters into buildings and rooms, an exercise to which they had clearly been trained. A snap of fingers brought them back to heel, or sit, or stay. “We found this.” Jayge pointed to a piece of enameled metal, a man’s hand wide and two arms long, leaning against the inside wall.

“There’s lettering on it,” Piemur said, angling to one side to read it. “P A R … can’t read the next one … D I S … nor the next.” He hunkered down and fingered the metal. “ ‘RIVER’ is perfectly legible!” He grinned at Ara, then tried to decipher the final word. “Looks like ‘stake’ to me.”

“We think the first word is ‘Paradise,’ ” Ara said shyly.

Piemur glanced out the open door to the idyllic surroundings, peaceful, private, beautiful with blossom and fruit. “I’d say that was a fair description,” he said.

“I’m positive this was a teaching room,” Ara went on in an embarrassed rush. “We found these!” She hefted Readis into his father’s arms and beckoned Piemur to a corner where she lifted the cover of a box of the ubiquitous opaque material. She held up a short, fat record, neatly squared off like one of Lord Asgenar’s newly bound leaves.

As Piemur turned it in his hand, its texture, despite the stains of age, was somehow soapy. The leaves fell open to clever illustrations so humorous that he smiled; he glanced at the words beneath them—short sentences all, and the letters, while recognizable, were absurdly big and bold. Master Arnor would never have let Harper Hall apprentices waste so much space; he taught them to write in small but legible letters, so that more could be crammed onto each page of hide.

“Clearly a youngster’s book,” he agreed. “But no teaching song I’ve ever read.”

“I can’t imagine what these were,” Ara said, holding up some flat rectangular objects, fingerlength and fingernail thin. “Even if they are numbered. And this …” She drew out a second, slimmer lesson book.

“I don’t know how much figuring a harper has to do,” Jayge said, “but it’s far beyond a trader’s need.”

Piemur recognized the combinations as equations, far more complicated than those Wansor had managed to drum into his head for use in figuring distances. He grinned, anticipating the expression on the Starsmith’s face when he opened that book.

“I know someone who might like to look at that,” he said casually.

“Take it with you,” Jayge replied. “It’s no good to us.”

Piemur shook his head regretfully. “I’d be afraid to lose it in my travels. If it’s lasted this long, it can wait here awhile longer.” Then he made a show of examining the box itself, which was made of more of that strange and durable material, without joins at its corners. “Master Fandarel is going to drive himself crazy trying to duplicate this material. How far have you gone inland and along the coast?” he asked Jayge.

“Three days west and two east.” Jayge shrugged. “More coves and forests. Before he took sick, Scallak and I followed the river, oh, four or five days, to where there’s a deep bend in its course. We could see mountains in the distance, but the river valley was much the same as it is here.”

“And no one else,” Ara added.

“You’re lucky I came!” Piemur spread out his arms, smiling mischievously to lighten their somberness.

On his second night he brought out his reed flute and the multiple pipes he had made, copying Menolly’s design, to cheer his lonely evenings. Jayge and Ara were grateful to hear music, Jayge mumbling along in a raspy light baritone while Ara lilted in a clear, sweet soprano. He showed them both the rudiments of playing and made them pipes.

Piemur made an outline of their holding, noting the positions of the restored house and each of the ruins. He knew exactly how far a man could walk the coast in a day and marked out an appropriate border on each side of the river. An inland boundary would have to wait, but he mentioned Jayge’s bend. He witnessed the sketch and wrapped it apart from his other records, to keep until he had a chance to discuss it with Master Robinton. If the Harper proved still too estranged from Benden, then he would speak to T’gellan about Jayge and Ara. If necessary, he would stand witness for them with Toric and the Weyrleaders himself.

He made Farli memorize the unique landmarks so that she could find her way back to the Paradise River Hold. Observing that exercise, Ara and Jayge asked him about his fire-lizard. They had Impressed eight between them—two queens, three bronzes, and three browns—but they had not trained them to any particular duties, apart from watching out for Readis’s cry. So on the fourth day, Piemur helped them with the most basic training. They were amazed at how well the creatures responded.

On the fifth morning, when Piemur went to the spacious beasthold to feed Stupid, he found Meer and Talla perched on Stupid’s back. Meer had a message from Sharra strapped to his bronze leg.

“They can even carry messages?” Ara asked, surprised.

“Useful that way, though they have to know where they’re going.” Piemur’s reply was somewhat distracted, for the message told him that Jaxom was gravely ill with fire-head at the Masterharper’s Cove. How Sharra knew where that was, Piemur could not guess. He himself had been hunting for that particular cove for the past three months. “I’ve got to leave. A friend needs me,” he added. “Look, Farli now knows who you are and where you are. As soon as I can, I’ll send you a message by her. When you’ve got it, just tell her to find Stupid—who isn’t.”

He gave Jayge a friendly clout on the back, made bold to hug Ara, and tweaked Readis’s chin, making the little fellow giggle. Then he started off in an easterly direction, wondering why Jayge did not come after him, demanding what he expected to find in that direction.